BURIAL 
THE  GUN 


f^ 

SN? 


THOMAS 
NELSON 
PAGE 


THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  GUNS 


THE 


BURIAL  OF  THE   GUNS 


BY 

THOMAS   NELSON    PAGE 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1894 


COPYRIGHT,  1894,  BY 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


TROW  DIRECTORY 

PRINTING  AND   BOOKBINDING  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


TO  MY  WIFE 


Mi 1989 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

MY  COUSIN  FANNY  i 

THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  GUNS  .         .      41 

THE  GRAY  JACKET  OF  "  No.  4 "  .  87 
Miss  DANGERLIE'S  ROSES  .  .  .119 
How  THE  CAPTAIN  MADE  CHRISTMAS  145 
LITTLE  DARBY  .  .  .  .  .  173 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


MY   COUSIN   FANNY 

WE  do  not  keep  Christmas  now  as  we 
used  to  do  in  old  Hanover.  We  have 
not  time  for  it,  and  it  does  not  seem  like  the 
same  thing.  Christmas,  however,  always  brings 
up  to  me  my  cousin  Fanny ;  I  suppose  because 
she  always  was  so  foolish  about  Christmas. 

My  cousin  Fanny  was  an  old  maid  ;  indeed, 
to  follow  St.  Paul's  turn  of  phrase,  she  was  an 
old  maid  of  the  old  maids.  No  one  who  saw 
her  a  moment  could  have  doubted  it.  Old 
maids  have  from  most  people  a  feeling  rather 
akin  to  pity — a  hard  heritage.  They  very  often 
have  this  feeling  from  the  young.  This  must 
be  the  hardest  part  of  all — to  see  around  them 
friends,  each  "a.  happy  mother  of  children," 
little  ones  responding  to  affection  with  the 
sweet  caresses  of  childhood,  whilst  any  ad- 
vances that  they,  their  aunts  or  cousins,  may 
make  are  met  with  indifference  or  condescen- 
sion. My  cousin  Fanny  was  no  exception. 
She  was  as  proud  as  Lucifer;  yet  she  went 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


through  life — the  part  that  I  knew  of — bearing 
the  pity  of  the  great  majority  of  the  people  who 
knew  her. 

She  lived  at  an  old  place  called  l '  Wood- 
side,"  which  had  been  in  the  family  for  a  great 
many  years;  indeed,  ever  since  before  the  Rev- 
olution. The  neighborhood  dated  back  to  the 
time  of  the  colony,  and  Woodside  was  one  of 
the  old  places.  My  cousin  Fanny's  grand- 
mother had  stood  in  the  door  of  her  chamber 
with  her  large  scissors  in  her  hand,  and  defied 
Tarleton's  red-coated  troopers  to  touch  the 
basket  of  old  communion-plate  which  she  had 
hung  on  her  arm. 

The  house  was  a  large  brick  edifice,  with  a 
pyramidal  roof,  covered  with  moss,  small  win- 
dows, porticos  with  pillars  somewhat  out  of 
repair,  a  big,  high  hall,  and  a  staircase  wide 
enough  to  drive  a  gig  up  it  if  it  could  have 
turned  the  corners.  A  grove  of  great  forest 
oaks  and  poplars  densely  shaded  it,  and  made 
it  look  rather  gloomy ;  and  the  garden,  with 
the  old  graveyard  covered  with  periwinkle  at 
one  end,  was  almost  in  front,  while  the  side 
of  the  wood — a  primeval  forest,  from  which  the 
place  took  its  name — came  up  so  close  as  to 
form  a  strong,  dark  background.  During  the 
war  the  place,  like  most  others  in  that  neigh- 

4 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


borhood,  suffered  greatly,  and  only  a  sudden 
exhibition  of  spirit  on  Cousin  Fanny's  part 
saved  it  from  a  worse  fate.  After  the  war  it 
went  down  ;  the  fields  were  poor,  and  grew  up 
in  briers  and  sassafras,  and  the  house  was  too 
large  and  out  of  repair  to  keep  from  decay,  the 
ownership  of  it  being  divided  between  Cousin 
Fanny  and  other  members  of  the  family.  Cous- 
in Fanny  had  no  means  whatever,  so  that  it 
soon  was  in  a  bad  condition.  The  rest  of  the 
family,  as  they  grew  up,  went  off,  compelled 
by  necessity  to  seek  some  means  of  livelihood, 
and  would  have  taken  Cousin  Fanny  too  if 
she  would  have  gone;  but  she  would  not  go. 
They  did  all  they  could  for  her,  but  she  pre- 
ferred to  hang  around  the  old  place,  and  to  do 
what  she  could  with  her  "  mammy,"  and  "  old 
Stephen,"  her  mammy's  husband,  who  alone 
remained  in  the  quarters.  She  lived  in  a  part 
of  the  house,  locking  up  the  rest,  and  from 
time  to  time  visited  among  her  friends  and  rela- 
tives, who  always  received  her  hospitably.  She 
had  an  old  piece  of  a  mare  (which  I  think  she 
had  bought  from  Stephen),  with  one  eye,  three 
legs,  and  no  mane  or  tail  to  speak  of,  and  on 
which  she  lavished,  without  the  least  perceptible 
result,  care  enough  to  have  kept  a  stable  in  con- 
dition. In  a  freak  of  humor  she  named  this 

5 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


animal  "  Fashion,"  after  a  noted  racer  of  the 
old  times,  which  had  been  raised  in  the  county, 
and  had  beaten  the  famous  Boston  in  a  great 
race.  She  always  spoke  of  < <  Fash  ' '  with  a  tone 
of  real  tenderness  in  her  voice,  and  looked  after 
her,  and  discussed  her  ailments,  which  were 
always  numerous,  as  if  she  had  been  a  delicate 
child.  Mounted  on  this  beast,  with  her  bags 
and  bundles,  and  shawls  and  umbrella,  and  a 
long  stick  or  pole,  she  used  occasionally  to  make 
the  tour  of  the  neighborhood,  and  was  always 
really  welcomed  ;  because,  notwithstanding  the 
trouble  she  gave,  she  always  stirred  things  up. 
As  was  said  once,  you  could  no  more  have 
remained  dull  where  she  was  than  you  could 
have  dozed  with  a  chinkapin-burr  down  your 
back.  Her  retort  was  that  a  chinkapin -burr 
might  be  used  to  rouse  people  from  a  leth- 
argy (she  had  an  old  maid's  tongue).  By  the 
younger  members  of  the  family  she  was  always 
welcomed,  because  she  furnished  so  much  fun. 
She  nearly  always  fetched  some  little  thing  to 
her  host — not  her  hostess — a  fowl,  or  a  pat  of 
butter  from  her  one  old  cow,  or  something  of 
the  kind,  because,  she  said,  "  Abigail  had  estab- 
lished the  precedent,  and  she  was  '  a  woman  of 
good  understanding ' — she  understood  that  feed- 
ing and  flattery  were  the  way  to  win  men." 
6 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


She  would  sometimes  have  a  chicken  in  a  basket 
hung  on  the  off  pummel  of  her  old  saddle,  be- 
cause at  times  she  fancied  she  could  not  eat 
anything  but  chicken  soup,  and  she  did  "not 
wish  to  give  trouble. ' '  She  used  to  give  trouble 
enough;  for  it  generally  turned  out  that  she 
had  heard  some  one  was  sick  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  she  wanted  the  soup  carried  to  her. 

I  remember  how  mad  Joe  got  because  she  made 
him  go  with  her  to   carry  a  bucket  of  soup  to 
old  Mrs.  Ronquist. 

Cousin  Fanny  had  the  marks  of  an  old  maid. 
She  was  thin  ("scrawny  "  we  used  to  call  her, 
though  I  remember  now  she  was  quite  erect 
until  she  grew  feeble)  ;  her  features  were  fine ; 
her  nose  was  very  straight ;  her  hair  was 
brown ;  and  her  eyes,  which  were  dark,  were 
weak,  so  that  she  had  often  to  wear  a  green 
shade.  She  used  to  say  herself  that  they  were 

II  bad  eyes."     They  had  been  so  ever  since  the 
time  when  she  was  a  young  girl,  and  there  had 
been  a  very  bad  attack  of  scarlet  fever  at  her 
home,    and   she   had   caught    it.     I    think  she 
caught  a  bad  cold  with  it — sitting  up  nursing 
some  of  the  younger  children,  perhaps — and  it 
had  settled  in  her  eyes.     She  was  always  very 
liable  to  cold. 

I  believe  she  had  a  lover  then  or  about  that 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


time ;  but  her  mother  had  died  not  long  before, 
and  she  had  some  notion  of  duty  to  the  chil- 
dren, and  so  discarded  him.  Of  course,  as 
every  one  said,  she  'd  much  better  have  married 
him.  I  do  not  suppose  he  ever  could  have 
addressed  her.  She  never  would  admit  that 
he  did,  which  did  not  look  much  like  it. 
She  was  once  spoken  of  in  my  presence  as  "  a 
sore-eyed  old  maid" — I  have  forgotten  who 
said  it.  Yet  I  can  now  recall  occasions  when 
her  eyes,  being  "better,"  appeared  unusually 
soft,  and,  had  she  not  been  an  old  maid,  would 
sometimes  have  been  beautiful — as,  for  instance, 
occasionally,  when  she  was  playing  at  the  piano 
in  the  evenings  before  the  candles  were  lighted. 
I  recollect  particularly  once  when  she  was  sing- 
ing an  old  French  love-song.  Another  time 
was  when  on  a  certain  occasion  some  one  was 
talking  about  marriages  and  the  reasons  which 
led  to  or  prevented  them.  She  sat  quite  still 
and  silent,  looking  out  of  the  window,  with  her 
thin  hands  resting  in  her  lap.  Her  head  was 
turned  away  from  most  of  the  people,  but  I  was 
sitting  where  I  could  see  her,  and  the  light  of 
the  evening  sky  was  on  her  face.  It  made  her 
look  very  soft.  She  lifted  up  her  eyes,  and 
looked  far  off  toward  the  horizon.  I  remember 
it  recalled  to  me,  young  as  I  was,  the  speech  I 
8 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


had  heard  some  one  once  make  when  I  was  a 
little  boy,  and  which  I  had  thought  so  ridiculous, 
that  "  when  she  was  young,  before  she  caught 
that  cold,  she  was  almost  beautiful."  There 
was  an  expression  on  her  face  that  made  me 
think  she  ought  always  to  sit  looking  out  of  the 
window  at  the  evening  sky.  I  believe  she  had 
brought  me  some  apples  that  day  when  she 
came,  and  that  made  me  feel  kindly  toward 
her.  The  light  on  her  hair  gave  it  a  reddish 
look,  quite  auburn.  Presently,  she  withdrew 
her  eyes  from  the  sky,  and  let  them  fall  into 
her  lap  with  a  sort  of  long,  sighing  breath,  and 
slowly  interlaced  her  fingers.  The  next  second 
some  one  jocularly  fired  this  question  at  her : 
"Well,  Cousin  Fanny,  give  us  your  views," 
and  her  expression  changed  back  to  that  which 
she  ordinarily  wore. 

"Oh,  my  views,  like  other  people's,  vary 
from  my  practice,"  she  said.  "  It  is  not  views, 
but  experiences,  which  are  valuable  in  life. 
When  I  shall  have  been  married  twice  I  will 
tell  you." 

"While  there's  life  there's  hope,  eh?"  haz- 
arded some  one ;  for  teasing  an  old  maid,  in 
any  way,  was  held  perfectly  legitimate. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  and  she  left  the  room, 
smiling,  and  went  up-stairs. 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


This  was  one  of  the  occasions  when  her  eyes 
looked  well.  There  were  others  that  I  remem- 
ber, as  sometimes  when  she  was  in  church ; 
sometimes  when  she  was  playing  with  little 
children ;  and  now  and  then  when,  as  on  that 
evening,  she  was  sitting  still,  gazing  out  of  the 
window.  But  usually  her  eyes  were  weak,  and 
she  wore  the  green  shade,  which  gave  her  face  a 
peculiar  pallor,  making  her  look  old,  and  giving 
her  a  pained,  invalid  expression. 

Her  dress  was  one  of  her  peculiarities.  Per- 
haps it  was  because  she  made  her  clothes  her- 
self, without  being  able  to  see  very  well.  I 
suppose  she  did  not  have  much  to  dress  on.  I 
know  she  used  to  turn  her  dresses,  and  change 
them  around  several  times.  When  she  had  any 
money  she  used  to  squander  it,  buying  dresses 
for  Scroggs's  girls  or  for  some  one  else.  She 
was  always  scrupulously  neat,  being  quite  old- 
maidish.  She  said  that  cleanliness  was  next  to 
godliness  in  a  man,  and  in  a  woman  it  was  on  a 
par  with  it.  I  remember  once  seeing  a  picture 
of  her  as  a  young  girl,  as  young  as  Kitty, 
dressed  in  a  soft  white  dress,  with  her  hair 
down  over  her  ears,  and  some  flowers  in  her 
dress — that  is,  it  was  said  to  be  she ;  but  I  did 
not  believe  it.  To  be  sure,  the  flowers  looked 
like  it.  She  always  would  stick  flowers  or 
10 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


leaves  in  her  dress,  which  was  thought  quite 
ridiculous.  The  idea  of  associating  flowers 
with  an  old  maid  !  It  was  as  hard  as  believing 
she  ever  was  the  young  girl.  It  was  not,  how- 
ever, her  dress,  old  and  often  queer  and  ill- 
made  as  it  used  to  be,  that  was  the  chief  griev- 
ance against  her.  There  was  a  much  stronger 
ground  of  complaint ;  she  had  nerves !  The 
word  used  to  be  strung  out  in  pronouncing  it, 
with  a  curve  of  the  lips,  as  "  ner-erves."  I 
don't  remember  that  she  herself  ever  mentioned 
them ;  that  was  the  exasperating  part  of  it. 
She  would  never  say  a  word ;  she  would  just 
close  her  thin  lips  tight,  and  wear  a  sort  of  ill 
look,  as  if  she  were  in  actual  pain.  She  used 
to  go  up-stairs,  and  shut  the  door  and  windows 
tight,  and  go  to  bed,  and  have  mustard-plasters 
on  her  temples  and  the  back  of  her  neck  ;  and 
when  she  came  down,  after  a  day  or  two,  she 
would  have  bright  red  spots  burnt  on  her  tem- 
ples and  neck,  and  would  look  ill.  Of  course 
it  was  very  hard  not  to  be  exasperated  at  this. 
Then  she  would  creep  about  as  if  merely  step- 
ping jarred  her;  would  put  on  a  heavy  blue 
veil,  and  wrap  her  head  up  in  a  shawl,  and  feel 
along  by  the  chairs  till  she  got  to  a  seat,  and 
drop  back  in  it,  gasping.  Why,  I  have  even 
seen  her  sit  in  the  room,  all  swathed  up,  and 
ii 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


with  an  old  parasol  over  her  head  to  keep  out 
the  light,  or  some  such  nonsense,  as  we  used  to 
think.  It  was  too  ridiculous  to  us,  and  we 
boys  used  to  walk  heavily  and  stumble  over 
chairs — "  accidentally,"  of  course  —  just  to 
make  her  jump.  Sometimes  she  would  even 
start  up  and  cry  out.  We  had  the  incontesta- 
ble proof  that  it  was  all  "  put  on ;  "  for  if  you 
began  to  talk  to  her,  and  got  her  interested, 
she  would  forget  all  about  her  ailments,  and 
would  run  on  and  talk  and  laugh  for  an  hour, 
until  she  suddenly  remembered,  and  sank  back 
again  in  her  shawls  and  pains. 

She  knew  a  great  deal.  In  fact,  I  recall  now 
that  she  seemed  to  know  more  than  any  woman 
I  have  ever  been  thrown  with,  and  if  she  had 
not  been  an  old  maid,  I  am  bound  to  admit 
that  her  conversation  would  have  been  the  most 
entertaining  I  ever  knew.  She  lived  in  a  sort 
of  atmosphere  of  romance  and  literature ;  the 
old  writers  and  their  characters  were  as  real  to 
her  as  we  were,  and  she  used  to  talk  about  them 
to  us  whenever  we  would  let  her.  Of  course, 
when  it  came  from  an  old  maid,  it  made  a 
difference.  She  was  not  only  easily  the  best 
French  scholar  in  our  region,  where  the  ladies 
all  knew  more  or  less  of  French,  but  she  was  an 
excellent  Latin  scholar,  which  was  much  less 

12 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


common.  I  have  often  lain  down  before  the  fire 
when  I  was  learning  my  Latin  lesson,  and  read 
to  her,  line  by  line,  Caesar  or  Ovid  or  Cicero, 
as  the  book  might  be,  and  had  her  render  it 
into  English  almost  as  fast  as  I  read.  Indeed, 
I  have  even  seen  Horace  read  to  her  as  she  sat 
in  the  old  rocking-chair  after  one  of  her  head- 
aches, with  her  eyes  bandaged,  and  her  head 
swathed  in  veils  and  shawls,  and  she  would 
turn  it  into  not  only  proper  English,  but  English 
with  a  glow  and  color  and  rhythm  that  gave 
the  very  life  of  the  odes.  This  was  an  exercise 
we  boys  all  liked  and  often  engaged  in — Frank, 
and  Joe,  and  Doug,  and  I,  and  even  old 
Blinky — for,  as  she  used  to  admit  herself,  she 
was  aways  worrying  us  to  read  to  her  (I  believe 
I  read  all  of  Scott's  novels  to  her).  Of  course 
this  translation  helped  us  as  well  as  gratified 
her.  I  do  not  remember  that  she  was  ever  too 
unwell  to  help  us  in  this  way  except  when  she 
was  actually  in  bed.  She  was  very  fond  of  us 
boys,  and  was  always  ready  to  take  our  side 
and  to  further  our  plans  in  any  way  whatever. 
We  would  get  her  to  steal  off  with  us,  and 
translate  our  Latin  for  us  by  the  fire.  This,  of 
course,  made  us  rather  fond  of  her.  She  was 
so  much  inclined  to  take  our  part  and  to  help 
us  that  I  remember  it  used  to  be  said  of  her  as 

13 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


a  sort  of  reproach,  "  Cousin  Fanny  always  sides 
with  the  boys. ' '  She  used  to  say  it  was  because 
she  knew  how  worthless  women  were.  She 
would  say  this  sort  of  thing  herself,  but  she  was 
very  touchy  about  women,  and  never  would 
allow  any  one  else  to  say  anything  about  them. 
She  had  an  old  maid's  temper.  I  remember 
that  she  took  Doug  up  short  once  for  talking 
about  "  old  maids."  She  said  that  for  her  part 
she  did  not  mind  it  the  least  bit ;  but  she  would 
not  allow  him  to  speak  so  of  a  large  class  of  her 
sex  which  contained  some  of  the  best  women  in 
the  world  ;  that  many  of  them  performed  work 
and  made  sacrifices  that  the  rest  of  the  world 
knew  nothing  about.  She  said  the  true  word 
for  them  was  the  old  Saxon  term  "  spinster  ;  " 
that  it  proved  that  they  performed  the  work  of 
the  house,  and  that  it  was  a  term  of  honor  of 
which  she  was  proud.  She  said  that  Christ  had 
humbled  himself  to  be  born  of  a  Virgin,  and 
that  every  woman  had  this  honor  to  sustain. 
Of  course  such  lectures  as  that  made  us  call  her 
an  old  maid  all  the  more.  Still,  I  don't  think 
that  being  mischievous  or  teasing  her  made  any 
difference  with  her.  Frank  used  to  worry  her 
more  than  any  one  else,  even  than  Joe,  and  I 
am  sure  she  liked  him  best  of  all.  That  may 
perhaps  have  been  because  he  was  the  best-look- 

14 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


ing  of  us.  She  said  once  that  he  reminded  her 
of  some  one  she  used  to  know  a  long  time  be- 
fore, when  she  was  young.  That  must  have 
been  a  long  time  before,  indeed.  He  used  to 
tease  the  life  out  of  her. 

She  was  extraordinarily  credulous  —  would 
believe  anything  on  earth  anyone  told  her, 
because,  although  she  had  plenty  of  humor, 
she  herself  never  would  deviate  from  the  abso- 
lute truth  a  moment,  even  in  jest.  I  do  not 
think  she  would  have  told  an  untruth  to  save 
her  life.  Well,  of  course  we  used  to  play  on 
her  to  tease  her.  Frank  would  tell  her  the 
most  unbelievable  and  impossible  lies  :  such  as 
that  he  thought  he  saw  a  mouse  yesterday  on 
the  back  of  the  sofa  she  was  lying  on  (this 
would  make  her  bounce  up  like  a  ball),  or  that 
he  believed  he  heard — he  was  not  sure — that 
Mr.  Scroggs  (the  man  who  had  rented  her  old 
home)  had  cut  down  all  the  old  trees  in  the 
yard,  and  pulled  down  the  house  because  he 
wanted  the  bricks  to  make  brick  ovens.  This 
would  worry  her  excessively  (she  loved  every 
brick  in  the  old  house,  and  often  said  she  would 
rather  live  in  the  kitchen  there  than  in  a  palace 
anywhere  else),  and  she  would  get  into  such  a 
state  of  depression  that  Frank  would  finally 
have  to  tell  her  that  he  was  just  "  fooling  her." 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


She  used  to  make  him  do  a  good  deal  of 
waiting  on  her  in  return,  and  he  was  the  one 
she  used  to  get  to  dress  old  Fashion's  back 
when  it  was  raw,  and  to  put  drops  in  her  eyes. 
He  got  quite  expert  at  it.  She  said  it  was  a 
penalty  for  his  worrying  her  so. 

She  was  the  great  musician  of  the  connection. 
This  is  in  itself  no  mean  praise  ;  for  it  was  the 
fashion  for  every  musical  gift  among  the  girls 
to  be  cultivated,  and  every  girl  played  or  sang 
more  or  less,  some  of  them  very  well.  But 
Cousin  Fanny  was  not  only  this.  She  had  a 
way  of  playing  that  used  to  make  the  old  piano 
sound  different  from  itself;  and  her  voice  was 
almost  the  sweetest  I  ever  heard  except  one  or 
two  on  the  stage.  It  was  particularly  sweet  in 
the  evenings,  when  she  ,cat  down  at  the  piano 
and  played.  She  would  not  always  do  it ;  she 
either  felt  "  not  in  the  mood,"  or  "not  sympa- 
thetic," or  some  such  thing.  None  of  the 
others  were  that  way ;  the  rest  could  play  just 
as  well  in  the  glare  of  day  as  in  the  twilight, 
and  before  one  person  as  another;  it  was,  we 
all  knew,  just  one  of  Cousin  Fanny's  old-maid 
crotchets.  When  she  sat  down  at  the  piano 
and  played,  her  fussiness  was  all  forgotten;  her 
first  notes  used  to  be  recognized  through  the 
house,  and  people  used  to  stop  what  they  were 
16 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


doing,  and  come  in.  Even  the  children  would 
leave  off  playing,  and  come  straggling  in,  tip- 
toeing as  they  crossed  the  floor.  Some  of  the 
other  performers  used  to  play  a  great  deal 
louder,  but  we  never  tiptoed  when  they  played. 
Cousin  Fanny  would  sit  at  the  piano  looking 
either  up  or  right  straight  ahead  of  her,  or  often 
with  her  eyes  closed  (she  never  looked  at  the 
keys),  and  the  sound  used  to  rise  from  under 
her  long,  thin  fingers,  sometimes  rushing  and 
pouring  forth  like  a  deep  roar,  sometimes  ring- 
ing out  clear  like  a  band  of  bugles,  making  the 
hair  move  on  the  head  and  giving  strange  tin- 
glings  down  the  back.  Then  we  boys  wanted 
to  go  forth  in  the  world  on  fiery,  black  chargers, 
like  the  olden  knights,  and  fight  giants  and 
rescue  beautiful  ladies  and  poor  women.  Then 
again,  with  her  eyes  shut,  the  sound  would  al- 
most die  away,  and  her  fingers  would  move 
softly  and  lingeringly  as  if  they  loved  the  touch 
of  the  keys,  and  hated  to  leave  them ;  and  the 
sound  would  come  from  away  far  off,  and  every- 
thing would  grow  quiet  and  subdued,  and  the 
perfume  of  the  roses  out  of  doors  would  steal 
in  on  the  air,  and  the  soft  breezes  would  stir 
the  trees,  and  we  were  all  in  love,  and  wanted 
to  see  somebody  that  we  didn't  see.  And 
Cousin  Fanny  was  not  herself  any  longer,  but 

17 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


we  imagined  some  one  else  was  there.  Some- 
times she  suddenly  began  to  sing  (she  sang  old 
songs,  English  or  French) ;  her  voice  might 
be  weak  (it  all  depended  on  her  whims ;  she 
said,  on  her  health),  in  that  case  she  always 
stopped  and  left  the  piano;  or  it  might  be  "in 
condition."  When  it  was,  it  was  as  velvety 
and  mellow  as  a  bell  far  off,  and  the  old  ballads 
and  chansons  used  to  fill  the  twilight.  We  used 
even  to  forget  then  that  she  was  an  old  maid. 
Now  and  then  she  sang  songs  that  no  one  else 
had  ever  heard.  They  were  her  own  ;  she  had 
composed  both  the  words  and  the  air.  At 
other  times  she  sang  the  songs  of  others  to  her 
own  airs.  I  remember  the  first  time  I  ever 
heard  of  Tennyson  was  when,  one  evening  in 
the  twilight,  she  sang  his  echo  song  from  "  The 
Princess."  The  air  was  her  own,  and  in  the 
refrain  you  heard  perfectly  the  notes  of  the 
bugle,  and  the  echoes  answering,  "  Dying, 
dying,  dying."  Boy  as  I  was,  I  was  entranced, 
and  she  answered  my  enthusiasm  by  turning 
and  repeating  the  poem.  I  have  often  thought 
since  how  musical  her  voice  was  as  she  re- 
peated 

Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 

18 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


She  had  a  peculiarly  sentimental  tempera- 
ment. As  I  look  back  at  it  all  now,  she  was 
much  given  to  dwelling  upon  old-time  poems 
and  romances,  which  we  thought  very  ridic- 
ulous in  any  one,  especially  in  a  spinster  of 
forty  odd.  She  would  stop  and  talk  about  the 
branch  of  a  tree  with  the  leaves  all  turning  red 
or  yellow  or  purple  in  the  common  way  in 
which,  as  everyone  knows,  leaves  always  turn 
in  the  fall ;  or  even  about  a  tangle  of  briers, 
scarlet  with  frost,  in  a  corner  of  an  old  worm- 
fence,  keeping  us  waiting  while  she  fooled 
around  a  brier  patch  with  old  Blinky,  who 
would  just  as  lief  have  been  in  one  place  as 
another,  so  it  was  out  of  doors ;  and  even  when 
she  reached -the  house  she  would  still  carry  on 
about  it,  worrying  us  by  telling  over  again  just 
how  the  boughs  and  leaves  looked  massed 
against  the  old  gray  fence,  which  she  could  do 
till  you  could  see  them  precisely  as  they  were. 
She  was  very  aggravating  in  this  way.  Some- 
times she  would  even  take  a  pencil  or  pen  and 
a  sheet  of  paper  for  old  Blinky,  and  reproduce 
it.  "She  could  not  draw,  of  course,  for  she  was 
not  a  painter ;  all  she  could  do  was  to  make 
anything  look  almost  just  like  it  was. 

There  was  one  thing  about  her  which  excited 
much  talk ;  I  suppose  it  was  only  a  piece  of 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


old-maidism.  Of  course  she  was  religious.  She 
was  really  very  good.  She  was  considered  very 
high  church.  I  do  not  think,  from  my  recollec- 
tion of  her,  that  she  really  was,  or,  indeed,  that 
she  could  have  been  ;  but  she  used  to  talk  that 
way,  and  it  was  said  that  she  was.  In  fact,  it 
used  to  be  whispered  that  she  was  in  danger  of 
becoming  a  Catholic.  I  believe  she  had  an 
aunt  that  was  one,  and  she  had  visited  several 
times  in  Norfolk  and  Baltimore,  where  it  was 
said  there  were  a  good  many.  I  remember  she 
used  to  defend  them,  and  say  she  knew  a  great 
many  very  devout  ones.  And  she  admitted 
that  she  sometimes  went  to  the  Catholic  church, 
and  found  it  devotional ;  the  choral  service, 
she  said,  satisfied  something  in  her  soul.  It 
happened  to  be  in  the  evening  that  she  was 
talking  about  this.  She  sat  down  at  the  piano, 
and  played  some  of  the  Gregorian  chants  she 
had  heard,  and  it  had  a  soothing  influence  on 
everyone.  Even  Joe,  the  fidgetiest  of  all,  sat 
quite  still  through  it.  She  said  that  some  one 
had  said  it  was  the  music  that  the  angels  sing 
in  heaven  around  the  great  white  throne,  and 
there  was  no  other  sacred  music  like  it.  But 
she  played  another  thing  that  evening  which 
she  said  was  worthy  to  be  played  with  it.  It 
had  some  chords  in  it  that  I  remembered  long 
20 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


afterward.  Years  afterward  I  heard  it  played 
the  same  way  in  the  twilight  by  one  who  is 
a  blessed  saint  in  heaven,  and  may  be  playing 
it  there  now.  It  was  from  Chopin.  She  even 
said  that  evening,  under  the  impulse  of  her 
enthusiasm,  that  she  did  not  see,  except  that  it 
might  be  abused,  why  the  crucifix  should  not 
be  retained  by  all  Christian  churches,  as  it 
enabled  some  persons  not  gifted  with  strong- 
imaginations  to  have  a  more  vivid  realization 
of  the  crucified  Saviour.  This,  of  course,  was 
going  too  far,  and  it  created  considerable  ex- 
citement in  the  family,  and  led  to  some  very 
serious  talk  being  given  her,  in  which  the  sec- 
ond commandment  figured  largely.  It  was  con- 
sidered as  carrying  old-maidism  to  an  extreme 
length.  For  some  time  afterward  she  was  rather 
discountenanced.  In  reality,  I  think  what  some 
said  was  true  :  it  was  simply  that  she  was  emo- 
tional, as  old  maids  are  apt  to  be.  She  once 
said  that  many  women  have  the  nun's  instinct 
largely  developed,  and  sigh  for  the  peace  of  the 
cloister. 

She  seemed  to  be  very  fond  of  artists.  She 
had  the  queerest  tastes,  and  had,  or  had  had 
when  she  was  young,  one  or  two  friends  who,  I 
believe,  claimed  to  be  something  of  that  kind  ; 
she  used  to  talk  about  them  to  old  Blinky.  But 
21 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


it  seemed  to  us  from  what  she  said  that  artists 
never  did  any  work;  just  spent  their  time  loung- 
ing around,  doing  nothing,  and  daubing  paint 
on  their  canvas  with  brushes  like  a  painter,  or 
chiselling  and  chopping  rocks  like  a  mason. 
One  of  these  friends  of  hers  was  a  young  man 
from  Norfolk  who  had  made  a  good  many 
things.  He  was  killed  or  died  in  the  war ;  so 
he  had  not  been  quite  ruined;  was  worth  some- 
thing anyhow  as  a  soldier.  One  of  his  things 
was  a  Psyche,  and  Cousin  Fanny  used  to  talk  a 
good  deal  about  it ;  she  said  it  was  fine,  was  a 
work  of  genius.  She  had  even  written  some 
verses  about  it.  She  repeated  them  to  me  once, 
and  I  wrote  them  down.  Here  they  are : 

TO   GALT'S   PSYCHE. 
Well  art  thou  called  the  soul ; 

For  as  I  gaze  on  thee, 
My  spirit,  past  control, 

Springs  up  in  ecstasy. 

Thou  canst  not  be  dead  stone  ; 

For  o'er  thy  lovely  face, 
Softer  than  music's  tone, 

I  see  the  spirit's  grace. 

The  wild  asolian  lyre 

Is  but  a  silken  string, 
Till  summer  winds  inspire, 

And  softest  music  bring. 

22 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


Psyche,  thou  wast  but  stone 

Till  his  inspiring  came  : 
The  sculptor's  hand  alone 

Made  not  that  soul-touched  frame. 

They  have  lain  by  me  for  years,  and  are  pretty 
good  for  one  who  didn't  write.  I  think,  how- 
ever, she  was  young  when  she  addressed  them 
to  the  ' '  soul  -  touched  ' '  work  of  the  young- 
sculptor,  who  laid  his  genius  and  everything  at 
Virginia's  feet.  They  were  friends,  I  believe, 
when  she  was  a  girl,  before  she  caught  that 
cold,  and  her  eyes  got  bad. 

Among  her  eccentricities  was  her  absurd 
cowardice.  She  was  afraid  of  cows,  afraid  of 
horses,  afraid  even  of  sheep.  And  bugs,  and 
anything  that  crawled,  used  to  give  her  a  fit. 
If  we  drove  her  anywhere,  and  the  horses  cut 
up  the  least  bit,  she  would  jump  out  and  walk, 
even  in  the  mud ;  and  I  remember  once  seeing 
her  cross  the  yard,  where  a  young  cow  that  had 
a  calf  asleep  in  the  weeds,  over  in  a  corner 
beyond  her,  started  toward  it  at  a  little  trot 
with  a  whimper  of  motherly  solicitude.  Cousin 
Fanny  took  it  into  her  head  that  the  cow 
was  coming  at  her,  and  just  screamed,  and  sat 
down  flat  on  the  ground,  carrying  on  as  if  she 
were  a  baby.  Of  course,  we  boys  used  to  tease 
her,  and  tell  her  the  cows  were  coining  after 

23 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


her.     You  could  not  help  teasing  anybody  like 
that. 

I  do  not  see  how  she  managed  to  do  what 
she  did  when  the  enemy  got  to  Woodside  in 
the  war.  That  was  quite  remarkable,  consid- 
ering what  a  coward  she  was.  During  1864 
the  Yankees  on  a  raid  got  to  her  house  one 
evening  in  the  summer.  As  it  happened,  a 
young  soldier,  one  of  her  cousins  (she  had  no 
end  of  cousins),  had  got  a  leave  of  absence, 
and  had  come  there  sick  with  fever  just  the  day 
before  (the  house  was  always  a  sort  of  hospital). 
He  was  in  the  boys'  room  in  bed  when  the 
Yankees  arrived,  and  they  were  all  around  the 
house  before  she  knew  it.  She  went  down- 
stairs to  meet  them.  They  had  been  informed 
by  one  of  the  negroes  that  Cousin  Charlie  was 
there,  and  they  told  her  that  they  wanted  him. 
She  told  them  they  could  not  get  him.  They 
asked  her,  "Why?  Is  he  not  there?"  (I 
heard  her  tell  of  it  once.)  She  said  : 

"  You  know,  I  thought  when  I  told  them 
they  could  not  get  him  that  they  would  go 
away,  but  when  they  asked  me  if  he  was  not 
there,  of  course  I  could  not  tell  them  a  story ; 
so  I  said  I  declined  to  answer  impertinent 
questions.  You  know  poor  Charlie  was  at  that 
moment  lying  curled  up  under  the  bed  in  the 
24 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


boys'  room  with  a  roll  of  carpet  a  foot  thick 
around  him,  and  it  was  as  hot  as  an  oven. 
Well,  they  insisted  ongoing  through  the  house, 
and  I  let  them  go  all  through  the  lower  stories ; 
but  when  they  started  up  the  staircase  I  was 
ready  for  them.  I  had  always  kept,  you  know, 
one  of  papa's  old  horse-pistols  as  a  protection. 
Of  course,  it  was  not  loaded.  I  would  not  have 
had  it  loaded  for  anything  in  the  world.  I 
always  kept  it  safely  locked  up,  and  I  was 
dreadfully  afraid  of  it  even  then.  But  you  have 
no  idea  what  a  moral  support  it  gave  me,  and  I 
used  to  unlock  the  drawer  every  afternoon  to 
see  if  it  was  still  there  all  right,  and  then  lock 
it  again,  and  put  the  key  away  carefully.  Well, 
as  it  happened,  I  had  just  been  looking  at  it  — 
which  I  called  '  inspecting  my  garrison. '  I  used 
to  feel  just  like  Lady  Margaret  in  Tillietudlam 
Castle.  Well,  I  had  just  been  looking  at  it  that 
afternoon  when  I  heard  the  Yankees  were  com- 
ing, and  by  a  sudden  inspiration — I  cannot 
tell  for  my  life  how  I  did  it — I  seized  the 
pistol,  and  hid  it  under  my  apron.  I  held  on  to 
it  with  both  hands,  I  was  so  afraid  of  it,  and  all 
the  time  those  wretches  were  going  through  the 
rooms  down -stairs  I  was  quaking  with  terror. 
But  when  they  started  up  the  stairs  I  had  a  new 
feeling.  I  knew  they  were  bound  to  get  poor 

25 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


Charlie  if  he  had  not  melted  and  run  away,— 
no,  he  would  never  have  run  away ;  I  mean 
evaporated, — and  I  suddenly  ran  up  the  stair- 
way a  few -steps  before  them,  and,  hauling  out 
my  big  pistol,  pointed  it  at  them,  and  told  them 
that  if  they  came  one  step  higher  I  would  cer- 
tainly pull  the  trigger.  I  could  not  say  I  would 
shoot,  for  it  was  not  loaded.  Well,  do  you 
know,  they  stopped  !  They  stopped  dead  still. 
I  declare  I  was  so  afraid  the  old  pistol  would 
go  off,  though,  of  course,  I  knew  it  was  not 
loaded,  that  I  was  just  quaking.  But  as  soon 
as  they  stopped,  I  began  to  attack.  I  remem- 
bered my  old  grandmother  and  her  scissors, 
and,  like  General  Jackson,  I  followed  up  my  ad- 
vantage. I  descended  the  steps,  brandishing 
my  pistol  with  both  hands,  and  abusing  them 
with  all  my  might.  I  was  so  afraid  they  might 
ask  if  it  was  loaded.  But  they  really  thought 
I  would  shoot  them  (you  know  men  have  not 
liked  to  be  slain  by  a  woman  since  the  time  of 
Abimelech),  and  they  actually  ran  down  the 
steps,  with  me  after  them,  and  I  got  them  all 
out  of  the  house.  Then  I  locked  the  door  and 
barred  it,  and  ran  up-stairs  and  had  such  a  cry 
over  Charlie.  [That  was  like  an  old  maid.] 
Afterwards  they  were  going  to  burn  the  house, 
but  I  got  hold  of  their  colonel,  who  was  not 
26 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


there  at  first,  and  made  him  really  ashamed  of 
himself ;  for  I  told  him  we  were  nothing  but  a 
lot  of  poor  defenceless  women  and  a  sick  boy. 
He  said  he  thought  I  was  right  well  defended, 
as  I  had  held  a  company  at  bay.  He  finally 
promised  that  if  I  would  give  him  some  music 
he  would  not  go  up-stairs.  So  I  paid  that  for 
my  ransom,  and  a  bitter  ransom  it  was  too,  I 
can  tell  you,  singing  for  a  Yankee  !  But  I  gave 
him  a  dose  of  Confederate  songs,  I  promise  you. 
He  asked  me  to  sing  the  '  Star  Spangled  Ban- 
ner ; '  but  I  told  him  I  would  not  do  it  if  he 
burnt  the  house  down  with  me  in  it — though  it 
was  inspired  by  my  cousin,  Armistead.  Then 
he  asked  me  to  sing  '  kome,  Sweet  Home,'  and 
I  did  that,  and  he  actually  had  tears  in  his  eyes 
— the  hypocrite  !  He  had  very  fine  eyes,  too. 
I  think  I  did  sing  it  well,  though.  I  cried  a 
little  myself,  thinking  of  the  old  house  being 
so  nearly  burnt.  There  was  a  young  doctor 
there,  a  surgeon,  a  really  nice  -  looking  fel- 
low for  a  Yankee ;  I  made  him  feel  ashamed 
of  himself,  I  tell  you.  I  told  him  I  had  no 
doubt  he  had  a  good  mother  and  sister  up  at 
home,  and  to  think  of  his  coming  and  war- 
ring on  poor  women.  And  they  really  placed 
a  guard  over  the  house  for  me  while  they  were 
there. ' ' 

27 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


This  she  actually  did.  With  her  old  empty 
horse-pistol  she  cleared  the  house  of  the  mob, 
and  then  vowed  that  if  they  burned  the  house 
she  would  burn  up  in  it,  and  Finally  saved  it 
by  singing  "Home,  Sweet  Home,"  for  the 
colonel.  She  could  not  have  done  much  bet- 
ter even  if  she  had  not  been  an  old  maid. 

I  did  not  see  much  of  her  after  I  grew  up.  I 
moved  away  from  the  old  county.  Most  others 
did  the  same.  It  had  been  desolated  by  the 
war,  and  got  poorer  and  poorer.  With  an  old 
maid's  usual  crankiness  and  inability  to  adapt 
herself  to  the  order  of  things,  Cousin  Fanny  re- 
mained behind.  She  refused  to  come  away ; 
said,  I  believe,  she  had  to  look  after  the  old 
place,  mammy,  and  Fash,  or  some  such  non- 
sense. I  think  she  had  some  idea  that  the 
church  would  go  down,  or  that  the  poor  people 
around  would  miss  her,  or  something  equally 
unpractical.  Anyhow,  she  stayed  behind,  and 
lived  for  quite  awhile  the  last  of  her  connec- 
tion in  the  county.  Of  course  all  did  the  best 
they  could  for  her,  and  had  she  gone  to  live 
around  with  her  relatives,  as  they  wished  her  to 
do,  they  would  have  borne  with  her  and  sup- 
ported her.  B.it  she  said  no ;  that  a  single 
woman  ought  never  to  live  in  any  house  but  her 
father's  or  her  own ;  and  we  could  not  do  any- 
28 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


thing  with  her.  She  was  so  proud  she  would 
not  take  money  as  a  gift  from  anyone,  not  even 
from  her  nearest  relatives. 

Her  health  got  rather  poor — not  unnatural- 
ly, considering  the  way  she  divided  her  time 
between  doctoring  herself  and  fussing  after 
sick  people  in  all  sorts  of  weather.  With  the 
fancifulness  of  her  kind,  she  finally  took  it 
into  her  head  that  she  must  consult  a  doctor 
in  New  York.  Of  course,  no  one  but  an  old 
maid  would  have  done  this  ;  the  home  doctors 
were  good  enough  for  everyone  else.  Nothing 
would  do,  however,  but  she  must  go  to  New 
York ;  so,  against  the  advice  of  everyone,  she 
wrote  to  a  cousin  who  was  living  there  to  meet 
her,  and  with  her  old  wraps,  and  cap,  and 
bags,  and  bundles,  and  stick,  and  umbrella,  she 
started.  The  lady  met  her  ;  that  is,  went  to 
meet  her,  but  failed  to  find  her  at  the  station, 
and  supposing  that  she  had  not  come,  or  had 
taken  some  other  railroad,  which  she  was  likely 
to  do,  returned  home,  to  find  her  in  bed,  with 
her  "  things  "  piled  up  on  the  floor.  Some  gen- 
tleman had  come  across  her  in  Washington, 
holding  the  right  train  while  she  insisted  on 
taking  the  wrong  route,  and  had  taken  com- 
passion on  her,  and  not  only  escorted  her  to 
New  York,  but  had  taken  her  and  all  her  par- 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


eels  and  brought  her  to  her  destination,  where 
she  had  at  once  retired. 

"  He  was  a  most  charming  man,  my  dear," 
she  said  to  her  cousin,  who  told  me  of  it  after- 
ward in  narrating  her  eccentricities  ;  "  and  to 
think  of  it,  I  don't  believe  I  had  looked  in  a 
glass  all  day,  and  when  I  got  here,  my  cap  had 
somehow  got  twisted  around  and  was  perched 
right  over  my  left  ear,  making  me  look  a  per- 
fect fright.  He  told  me  his  name,  but  I  have 
forgotten  it,  of  course.  But  he  was  such  a 
gentleman,  and  to  think  of  his  being  a  Yan- 
kee !  I  told  him  I  hated  all  Yankees,  and  he 
just  laughed,  and  did  not  mind  my  stick,  nor 
old  umbrella,  nor  bundles  a  bit.  You'd  have 
thought  my  old  cap  was  a  Parisian  bonnet.  I 
will  not  believe  he  was  a  Yankee. ' ' 

Well,  she  went  to  see  the  doctor,  the  most 
celebrated  in  New  York — at  the  infirmary,  of 
course,  for  she  was  too  poor  to  go  to  his  office ; 
one  consultation  would  have  taken  every  cent 
she  had — her  cousin  went  with  her,  and  told  me 
of  it.  She  said  that  when  she  came  clown- 
stairs  to  go  she  never  saw  such  a  sight.  On  her 
head  she  had  her  blue  cap,  and  her  green  shade 
and  her  veil,  and  her  shawl ;  and  she  had  the 
old  umbrella  and  long  stick,  which  she  had 
brought  from  the  country,  and  a  large  pillow 

30 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


under  her  arm,  because  she  "  knew  she  was  go- 
ing to  faint."  So  they  started  out,  but  it  was  a 
slow  procession.  The  noise  and  bustle  of  the 
street  dazed  her,  her  cousin  fancied,  and  every 
now  and  then  she  would  clutch  her  companion 
and  declare  she  must  go  back  or  she  should 
faint.  At  every  street  -  crossing  she  insisted 
upon  having  a  policeman  to  help  her  over,  or, 
in  default  of  that,  she  would  stop  some  man 
and  ask  him  to  escort  her  across,  which,  of 
course,  he  would  do,  thinking  her  crazy. 

Finally  they  reached  the  infirmary,  where 
there  were  already  a  large  number  of  patients, 
and  many  more  came  in  afterwards.  Here  she 
shortly  established  an  acquaintance  with  several 
strangers.  She  had  to  wait  an  hour  or  more  for 
her  turn,  and  then  insisted  that  several  who 
had  come  in  after  her  should  go  in  before  her, 
because  she  said  the  poor-  things  looked  so 
tired.  This  would  have  gone  on  indefinitely, 
her  cousin  said,  if  she  had  not  finally  dragged 
her  into  the  doctor's  room.  There  the  first 
thing  that  she  did  was  to  insist  that  she  must 
lie  down,  she  was  so  faint,  and  her  pillow  was 
brought  into  requisition.  The  doctor  humored 
her,  and  waited  on  her.  Her  friend  started  to 
tell  him  about  her,  but  the  doctor  said,  "  I  pre- 
fer to  have  her  tell  me  herself."  She  presently 

3* 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


began  to  tell,  the  doctor  sitting  quietly  by  lis- 
tening and  seeming  to  be  much  interested. 
He  gave  her  some  prescription,  and  told  her  to 
come  again  next  day,  and  when  she  went  he 
sent  for  her  ahead  of  her  turn,  and  after  that 
made  her  come  to  his  office  at  his  private  house, 
instead  of  to  the  infirmary,  as  at  first.  He 
turned  out  to  be  the  surgeon  who  had  been  at 
her  house  with  the  Yankees  during  the  war. 
He  was  very  kind  to  her.  I  suppose  he  had 
never  seen  anyone  like  her.  She  used  to  go 
every  day,  and  soon  dispensed  with  her  friend's 
escort,  finding  no  difficulty  in  getting  about. 
Indeed,  she  came  to  be  known  on  the  streets 
she  passed  through,  and  on  the  cars  she  travelled 
by,  and  people  guided  her.  Several  times  as 
she  was  taking  the  wrong  car  men  stopped  her, 
and  said,  to  her,  "Madam,  yours  is  the  red 
car."  She  said,  sure  enough  it  was,  but  she 
never  could  divine  how  they  knew.  She  ad- 
dressed the  conductors  as,  "  My  dear  sir,"  and 
made  them  help  her  not  only  off,  but  quite  to 
the  sidewalk,  when  she  thanked  them,  and  said 
"  Good-by,"  as  if  she  had  been  at  home.  She 
said  she  did  this  on  principle,  for  it  was  such 
a  good  thing  to  teach  them  to  help  a  feeble 
woman.  Next  time  they  would  expect  to  do  it, 
and  after  a  while  it  would  become  a  habit.  She 

32 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


said  no  one  knew  what  terror  women  had  of 
being  run  over  and  trampled  on. 

She  was,  as  I  have  said,  an  awful  coward. 
She  used  to  stand  still  on  the  edge  of  the  street 
and  look  up  and  down  both  ways  ever  so  long, 
then  go  out  in  the  street  and  stand  still,  look 
both  ways  and  then  run  back ;  or  as  like  as  not 
start  on  and  turn  and  run  back  after  she  was 
more  than  half  way  across,  and  so  get  into  real 
danger.  One  day,  as  she  was  passing  along,  a 
driver  had  in  his  cart  an  old  bag-of-bones  of  a 
horse,  which  he  was  beating  to  make  him  pull  up 
the  hill,  and  Cousin  Fanny,  with  an  old  maid's 
meddlesomeness,  pushed  out  into  the  street  and 
caught  hold  of  him  and  made  him  stop,  which 
of  course  collected  a  crowd,  and  just  as  she 
was  coming  back  a  little  cart  came  rattling 
along,  and  though  she  was  in  no  earthly  danger, 
she  ran  so  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  the  horse 
that  she  tripped  and  fell  down  in  the  street  and 
hurt  herself.  So  much  for  cowardice. 

The  doctor  finally  told  her  that  she  had 
nothing  the  matter  with  her,  except  something 
with  her  nerves  and,  I  believe,  her  spine,  and 
that  she  wanted  company  (you  see  she  was  a 
good  deal  alone).  He  said  it  was  the  first  law 
of  health  ever  laid  down,  that  it  was  not  good 
for  man  to  be  alone ;  that  loneliness  is  a  spe- 

33 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


cific  disease.  He  said  she  wanted  occupation, 
some  sort  of  work  to  interest  her,  and  make 
her  forget  her  aches  and  ailments.  He  sug- 
gested missionary  work  of  some  kind.  This  was 
one  of  the  worst  things  he  could  have  told  her, 
for  there  was  no  missionary  work  to  be  had 
where  she  lived.  Besides,  she  could  not  have 
done  missionary  work ;  she  had  never  done 
anything  in  her  life ;  she  was  always  wasting 
her  time  pottering  about  the  country  on  her  old 
horse,  seeing  sick  old  darkies  or  poor  people 
in  the  pines.  No  matter  how  bad  the  weather 
was,  nor  how  deep  the  roads,  she  would  go 
prowling  around  to  see  some  old  "aunty"  or 
"uncle,"  in  their  out-of-the-way  cabins,  or 
somebody's  sick  child.  I  have  met  her  on  old 
Fashion  in  the  rain,  toiling  along  in  roads 
that  were  knee-deep,  to  get  the  doctor  to  come 
to  see  some  sick  person,  or  to  get  a  dose  of 
physic  from  the  depot.  How  could  she  have 
done  any  missionary  work  ? 

I  believe  she  repaid  the  doctor  for  his  care 
of  her  by  sending  him  a  charity  patient  to  look 
after — Scroggs's  eldest  girl,  who  was  bedridden 
or  something.  Cousin  Fanny  had  a  fancy  that 
she  was  musical.  I  never  knew  how  it  was 
arranged.  I  think  the  doctor  sent  the  money 
down  to  have  the  child  brought  on  to  New  York 

34 


My  Cousin  Fanny 

for  him  to  see.  I  suppose  Cousin  Fanny  turned 
beggar,  and  asked  him.  I  know  she  told  him 
the  child  was  the  daughter  of  ' '  a  friend  ' '  of 
hers  (a  curious  sort  of  friend  Scroggs  was,  a 
drunken  creature,  who  had  done  everything 
he  could  to  pain  her),  and  she  took  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  to  get  her  to  the  train,  lending 
old  Fashion  to  haul  her,  which  was  a  great 
deal  more  than  lending  herself;  and  the  doctor 
treated  her  in  New  York  for  three  months  with- 
out any  charge,  till,  I  believe,  the  child  got 
better.  Old  maids  do  not  mind  giving  people 
trouble. 

She  hung  on  at  the  old  place  as  long  as  she 
could,  but  it  had  to  be  sold,  and  finally  she  had 
to  leave  it ;  though,  I  believe,  even  after  it  was 
sold  she  tried  boarding  for  a  while  with  Scroggs, 
the  former  tenant,  who  had  bought  it.  He 
treated  her  so  badly  that  finally  she  had  to 
leave,  and  boarded  around.  I  believe  the  real 
cause  was  she  caught  him  ploughing  with  old 
Fashion. 

After  that  I  do  not  know  exactly  what  she 
did.  I  heard  that  though  the  parish  was  vacant 
she  had  a  Sunday-school  at  the  old  church,  and 
so  kept  the  church  open  ;  and  that  she  used  to 
play  the  wheezy  old  organ  and  teach  the  pcfor 
children  the  chants;  but  as  they  grew  up  they 

35 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


all  joined  another  Church  ;  they  had  a  new 
organ  there.  I  do  not  know  just  how  she  got 
on.  I  was  surprised  to  hear  finally  that  she  was 
dead — had  been  dead  since  Christmas.  It  had 
never  occurred  to  me  that  she  would  die.  She 
had  been  dying  so  long  that  I  had  almost  come 
to  regard  her  as  immortal,  and  as  a  necessary 
part  of  the  old  county  and  its  associations. 

I  fell  in  some  time  afterwards  with  a  young 
doctor  from  the  old  county,  who,  I  found,  had 
attended  her,  and  I  made  some  inquiries  about 
her.  He  told  me  that  she  died  Christmas  night. 
She  came  to  his  house  on  her  old  mare,  in  the 
rain  and  snow  the  night  before,  to  get  him  to 
go  to  see  someone,  some  "  friend  "  of  hers  who 
was  sick.  He  said  she  had  more  sick  friends 
than  anyone  he  ever  knew ;  he  told  her  that 
he  was  sick  himself  and  could  not  go ;  but  she 
was  so  importunate  that  he  promised  to  go  next 
morning  (she  was  always  very  worrying).  He 
said  she  was  wet  and  shivering  then  (she  never 
had  any  idea  about  really  protecting  herself), 
and  that  she  appeared  to  have  a  wretched  cold. 
She  had  been  riding  all  day  seeing  about  a 
Christmas-tree  for  the  poor  children.  He  urged 
her  to  stop  and  spend  the  night,  but  she  insisted 
that  she  must  go  on,  though  it  was  nearly  dark 
and  raining  hard,  and  the  roads  would  have 

36 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


mired  a  cat  (she  was  always  self-willed).  Next 
day  he  went  to  see  the  sick  woman,  and  when 
he  arrived  he  found  her  in  one  bed  and  Cousin 
Fanny  in  another,  in  the  same  room.  When 
he  had  examined  the  patient,  he  turned  and 
asked  Cousin  Fanny  what  was  the  matter  with 
her.  "  Oh,  just  a  little  cold,  a  little  trouble  in 
the  chest,  as  Theodore  Hook  said,"  she  replied. 
''But  I  know  how  to  doctor  myself. "  Some- 
thing about  her  voice  struck  him.  He  went 
over  to  her  and  looked  at  her,  and  found  her 
suffering  from  acute  pneumonia.  He  at  once 
set  to  work  on  her.  He  took  the  other  patient 
up  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  into  another 
room,  where  he  told  her  that  Cousin  Fanny  was 
a  desperately  ill  woman.  "She  was  actually 
dying  then,  sir,"  he  said  to  me,  "and  she  died 
that  night.  When  she  arrived  at  the  place  the 
night  before,  which  was  not  until  after  nine 
o'clock,  she  had  gone  to  the  stable  herself  to 
put  up  her  old  mare,  or  rather  to  see  that  she 
was  fed — she  always  did  that — so  when  she 
got  into  the  house  she  was  wet  and  chilled 
through,  and  she  had  to  go  to  bed.  She  must 
have  had  on  wet  clothes,"  he  said. 

I  asked  him  if  she  knew  she  was  going  to 
die.  He  said  he  did  not  think  she  did ;  that 
he  did  not  tell  her,  and  she  talked  about  noth- 

37 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


ing  except  her  Christmas-tree  and  the  people 
she  wanted  to  see.  He  heard  her  praying  in 
the  night,  "and,  by  the  way,"  he  said,  "she 
mentioned  you.  She  shortly  became  rather  de- 
lirious, and  wandered  a  good  deal,  talking  of 
things  that  must  have  happened  when  she  was 
young ;  spoke  of  going  to  see  her  mother  some- 
where. The  last  thing  she  ever  said  was  some- 
thing about  fashion,  which,"  he  said,  "showed 
how  ingrained  is  vanity  in  the  female  mind." 
The  doctor  knows  something  of  human  nature. 
He  concluded  what  he  had  to  say  with,  "She 
was  in  some  respects  a  very  remarkable  woman 
— if  she  had  not  been  an  old  maid.  I  do  not 
suppose  that  she  ever  drew  a  well  breath  in  her 
life.  Not  that  I  think  old  maids  cannot  be 
very  acceptable  women, ' '  he  apologized.  ' '  They 
are  sometimes  very  useful."  The  doctor  was  a 
rather  enlightened  man. 

Some  of  her  relatives  got  there  in  time  for 
the  funeral,  and  a  good  many  of  the  poor 
people  came ;  and  she  was  carried  in  a  little  old 
spring  wagon,  drawn  by  Fashion,  through  the 
snow,  to  the  old  home  place,  where  Scroggs 
very  kindly  let  them  dig  the  grave,  and  was 
buried  there  in  the  old  graveyard  in  the  garden, 
in  a  vacant  space  just  beside  her  mother,  with 
the  children  around  her.  I  really  miss  her  a 

38 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


great  deal.  The  other  boys  say  they  do  the 
same.  I  suppose  it  is  the  trouble  she  used  to 
give  us. 

The  old  set  are  all  doing  well.  Doug  is  a 
professor.  He  says  the  word  "spinster"  gave 
him  a  twist  to  philology.  Old  Blinky  is  in 
Paris.  He  had  a  picture  in  the  salon  last  year, 
an  autumn  landscape,  called  ' '  Le  Cote  du  Bois. ' ' 
I  believe  the  translation  of  that  is  "  The  Wood- 
side. ' '  His  coloring  is  said  to  be  nature  itself. 
To  think  of  old  Blinky  being  a  great  artist ! 
Little  Kitty  is  now  a  big  girl,  and  is  doing 
finely  at  school.  I  have  told  her  she  must  not 
be  an  old  maid.  Joe  is  a  preacher  with  a 
church  in  the  purlieus  of  a  large  city.  I  was 
there  not  long  ago.  He  had  a  choral  service. 
The  Gregorian  music  carried  me  back  to  old 
times.  He  preached  on  the  text,  "  I  was  sick, 
and  ye  visited  me. ' '  It  was  such  a  fine  sermon, 
and  he  had  such  a  large  congregation,  that  I 
asked  why  he  did  not  go  to  a  finer  church.  He 
said  he  was  "  carrying  soup  to  Mrs.  Ronquist." 
By  the  way,  his  organist  was  a  splendid  mu- 
sician. She  introduced  herself  to  me.  It  was 
Scroggs's  daughter.  She  is  married,  and  can 
walk  as  well  as  I  can.  She  had  a  little  girl 
with  her  that  I  think  she  called  "  Fanny."  I 
do  not  think  that  was  Mrs.  Scroggs's  name. 

39 


My  Cousin  Fanny 


Frank  is  now  a  doctor,  or  rather  a  surgeon,  in 
the  same  city  with  Joe,  and  becoming  very 
distinguished.  The  other  day  he  performed  a 
great  operation,  saving  a  woman's  life,  which 
was  in  all  the  papers.  He  said  to  an  inter- 
viewer that  he  became  a  surgeon  from  dressing 
a  sore  on  an  old  mare's  back.  I  wonder  what 
he  was  talking  about  ?  He  is  about  to  start  a 
woman's  hospital  for  poor  women.  Cousin 
Fanny  would  have  been  glad  of  that ;  she  was 
always  proud  of  Frank.  She  would  as  likely  as 
not  have  quoted  that  verse  from  Tennyson's 
song  about  the  echoes.  She  sleeps  now  under 
the  myrtle  at  Scroggs's.  I  have  often  thought 
of  what  that  doctor  said  about  her  :  that  she 
would  have  been  a  very  remarkable  woman,  if 
she  had  not  been  an  old  maid — I  mean,  a 
spinster, 


40 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


THE   BURIAL  OF  THE  GUNS 

LEE  surrendered  the  remnant  of  his  army 
at  Appomattox,  April  9,  1865,  and  yet 
a  couple  of  days  later  the  old  Colonel's  bat- 
tery lay  intrenched  right  in  the  mountain-pass 
where  it  had  halted  three  days  before.  Two 
weeks  previously  it  had  been  detailed  with  a 
light  division  sent  to  meet  and  repel  a  force 
which  it  was  understood  was  coming  in  by  way 
of  the  southwest  valley  to  strike  Lee  in  the  rear 
of  his  long  line  from  Richmond  to  Petersburg. 
It  had  done  its  work.  The  mountain-pass  had 
been  seized  and  held,  and  the  Federal  force  had 
not  gotten  by  that  road  within  the  blue  rampart 
which  guarded  on  that  side  the  heart  of  Vir- 
ginia. This  pass,  which  was  the  key  to  the 
main  line  of  passage  over  the  mountains,  had 
been  assigned  by  the  commander  of  the  division 
to  the  old  Colonel  and  his  old  battery,  and 
they  had  held  it.  The  position  taken  by  the 
battery  had  been  chosen  with  a  soldier's  eye. 
A  better  place  could  not  have  been  selected  to 

43 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


hold  the  pass.  It  was  us  highest  point,  just 
where  the  road  crawled  over  the  shoulder  of 
the  mountain  along  the  limestone  cliff,  a  hun- 
dred feet  sheer  above  the  deep  river,  where  its 
waters  had  cut  their  way  in  ages  past,  and  now 
lay  deep  and  silent,  as  if  resting  after  their  ar- 
duous toil  before  they  began  to  boil  over  the 
great  bowlders  which  filled  the  bed  a  hundred 
or  more  yards  below. 

The  little  plateau  at  the  top  guarded  the  de- 
scending road  on  either  side  for  nearly  a  mile, 
and  the  mountain  on  the  other  side  of  the  river 
was  the  centre  of  a  clump  of  rocky,  heavily 
timbered  spurs,  so  inaccessible  that  no  feet  but 
those  of  wild  animals  or  of  the  hardiest  hunter 
had  ever  climbed  it.  On  the  side  of  the  river 
on  which  the  road  lay,  the  only  path  out  over 
the  mountain  except  the  road  itself  was  a  char- 
coal-burner's track,  dwindling  at  times  to  a 
footway  known  only  to  the  mountain  -  folk, 
which  a  picket  at  the  top  could  hold  against  an 
army.  The  position,  well  defended,  was  im- 
pregnable, and  it  was  well  defended.  This 
the  general  of  the  division  knew  when  he  de- 
tailed the  old  Colonel  and  gave  him  his  order 
to  hold  the  pass  until  relieved,  and  not  let  his 
guns  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy.  He 
knew  both  the  Colonel  and  his  battery.  The 

44 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


battery  was  one  of  the  oldest  in  the  army.  It 
had  been  in  the  service  since  April,  1861,  and 
its  commander  had  come  to  be  known  as  "  The 
Wheel  Horse  of  his  division."  He  was,  per- 
haps, the  oldest  officer  of  his  rank  in  his  branch 
of  the  service.  Although  he  had  bitterly  op- 
posed secession,  and  was  many  years  past  the 
age  of  service  when  the  war  came  on,  yet  as  soon 
as  the  President  called  on  the  State  for  her  quota 
of  troops  to  coerce  South  Carolina,  he  had 
raised  and  uniformed  an  artillery  company,  and 
offered  it,  not  to  the  President  of  the  United 
States,  but  to  the  Governor  of  Virginia. 

It  is  just  at  this  point  that  he  suddenly  looms 
up  to  me  as  a  soldier ;  the  relation  he  never 
wholly  lost  to  me  afterward,  though  I  knew  him 
for  many,  many  years  of  peace.  His  gray  coat 
with  the  red  facing  and  the  bars  on  the  collar  ; 
his  military  cap  ;  his  gray  flannel  shirt — it  was 
the  first  time  I  ever  saw  him  wear  anything  but 
immaculate  linen — his  high  boots;. his  horse 
caparisoned  with  a  black,  high-peaked  saddle, 
with  crupper  and  breast-girth,  instead  of  the 
light  English  hunting-saddle  to  which  I  had 
been  accustomed,  all  come  before  me  now  as  if 
it  were  but  the  other  day.  I  remember  but 
little  beyond  it,  yet  I  remember,  as  if  it  were 
yesterday,  his  leaving  home,  and  the  scenes 

45 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


which  immediately  preceded  it ;  the  excitement 
created  by  the  news  of  the  President's  call  for 
troops  ;  the  unanimous  judgment  that  it  meant 
war ;  the  immediate  determination  of  the  old 
Colonel,  who  had  hitherto  opposed  secession, 
that  it  must  be  met ;  the  suppressed  agitation 
on  the  plantation,  attendant  upon  the  tender  of 
his  services  and  the  Governor's  acceptance  of 
them.  The  prompt  and  continuous  work  inci- 
dent to  the  enlistment  of  the  men,  the  bustle 
of  preparation,  and  all  the  scenes  of  that  time, 
come  before  me  now.  It  turned  the  calm  cur- 
rent of  the  life  of  an  old  and  placid  country 
neighborhood,  far  from  any  city  or  centre,  and 
stirred  it  into  a  boiling  torrent,  strong  enough, 
or  fierce  enough  to  cut  its  way  and  join  the  gen- 
eral torrent  which  was  bearing  down  and  sweep- 
ing everything  before  it.  It  seemed  but  a  min- 
ute before  the  quiet  old  plantation,  in  which 
the  harvest,  the  corn-shucking,  and  the  Christ- 
mas holidays  alone  marked  the  passage  of  the 
quiet  seasons,  and  where  a  strange  carriage  or 
a  single  horseman  coming  down  the  big  road 
was  an  event  in  life,  was  turned  into  a  depot  of 
war-supplies,  and  the  neighborhood  became  a 
parade-ground.  The  old  Colonel,  not  a  colonel 
yet,  nor  even  a  captain,  except  by  brevet,  was 
on  his  horse  by  daybreak  and  off  on  his  rounds 
46 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


through  the  plantations  and  the  pines  enlisting 
his  company.  The  office  in  the  yard,  hereto- 
fore one  in  name  only,  became  one  now  in  re- 
ality, and  a  table  was  set  out  piled  with  papers, 
pens,  ink,  books  of  tactics  and  regulation, 
at  which  men  were  accepted  and  enrolled. 
Soldiers  seemed  to  spring  from  the  ground,  as 
they  did  from  the  sowing  of  the  dragon's  teeth 
in  the  days  of  Cadmus.  Men  came  up  the  high 
road  or  down  the  paths  across  the  fields,  some- 
times singly,  but  oftener  in  little  parties  of  two 
or  three,  and,  asking  for  the  Captain,  entered 
the  office  as  private  citizens  and  came  out  sol- 
diers enlisted  for  the  war.  There  was  nothing 
heard  of  on  the  plantation  except  fighting ; 
white  and  black,  all  were  at  work,  and  all  were 
eager  ;  the  servants  contended  for  the  honor  of 
going  with  their  master  ;  the  women  flocked 
to  the  house  to  assist  in  the  work  of  prepa- 
ration, cutting  out  and  making  under-clothes, 
knitting  socks,  picking  lint,  preparing  ban- 
dages, and  sewing  on  uniforms  ;  for  many  of  the 
men  who  had  enlisted  were  of  the  poorest  class, 
far  too  poor  to  furnish  anything  themselves, 
and  their  equipment  had  to  be  contributed 
mainly  by  wealthier  neighbors.  The  work  was 
carried  on  at  night  as  well  as  by  day,  for  the 
occasion  was  urgent.  Meantime  the  men  were 

47 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


being  drilled  by  the  Captain  and  his  lieuten- 
ants, who  had  been  militia  officers  of  old.  We 
were  carried  to  see  the  drill  at  the  cross-roads, 
and  a  brave  sight  it  seemed  to  us :  the  lines 
marching  and  countermarching  in  the  field, 
with  the  horses  galloping  as  they  wheeled  amid 
clouds  of  dust,  at  the  hoarse  commands  of  the 
excited  officers,  and  the  roadside  lined  with 
spectators  of  every  age  and  condition.  I  recall 
the  arrival  of  the  messenger  one  night,  with 
the  telegraphic  order  to  the  Captain  to  report 
with  his  company  at  "  Camp  Lee  "  imme- 
diately ;  the  hush  in  the  parlor  that  attended  its 
reading  ;  then  the  forced  beginning  of  the  con- 
versation afterwards  in  a  somewhat  strained  and 
unnatural  key,  and  the  Captain's  quick  and 
decisive  outlining  of  his  plans. 

Within  the  hour  a  dozen  messengers  were  on 
their  way  in  various  directions  to  notify  the 
members  of  the  command  of  the  summons,  and 
to  deliver  the  order  for  their  attendance  at  a 
given  point  next  day.  It  seemed  that  a  sudden 
and  great  change  had  come.  It  was  the  actual 
appearance  of  what  had  hitherto  only  been 
theoretical — war.  The  next  morning  the  Cap- 
tain, in  full  uniform,  took  leave  of  the  assembled 
plantation,  with  a  few  solemn  words  commend- 
ing all  he  left  behind  to  God,  and  galloped 
48 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


away  up  the  big  road  to  join  and  lead  his 
battery  to  the  war,  and  to  be  gone  just  four 
years. 

Within  a  month  he  was  on  "  the  Peninsula  " 
with  Magruder,  guarding  Virginia  on  the  east 
against  the  first  attack.  His  camp  was  first  at 
Yorktown  and  then  on  Jamestown  Island,  the 
honor  having  been  assigned  his  battery  of 
guarding  the  oldest  cradle  of  the  race  on  this 
continent.  It  was  at  "  Little  Bethel  "  that  his 
guns  were  first  trained  on  the  enemy,  and  that 
the  battery  first  saw  what  they  had  to  do,  and 
from  this  time  until  the  middle  of  April,  1865, 
they  were  in  service,  and  no  battery  saw  more 
service  or  suffered  more  in  it.  Its  story  was  a 
part  of  the  story  of  the  Southern  Army  in  Vir- 
ginia. The  Captain  was  a  rigid  disciplinarian, 
and  his  company  had  more  work  to  do  than  most 
new  companies.  A  pious  churchman,  of  the  old 
puritanical  type  not  uncommon  to  Virginia,  he 
looked  after  the  spiritual  as  well  as  the  physical 
welfare  of  his  men,  and  his  chaplain  or  he  read 
prayers  at  the  head  of  his  company  every  morn- 
ing during  the  war.  At  first  he  was  not  popu- 
lar with  the  men,  he  made  the  duties  of  camp 
life  so  onerous  to  them,  it  was  "nothing  but 
drilling  and  praying  all  the  time,"  they  said. 
But  he  had  not  commanded  very  long  before 

49 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


they  came  to  know  the  stuff  that  was  in  him. 
He  had  not  been  in  service  a  year  before  he 
had  had  four  horses  shot  under  him,  and  when 
later  on  he  was  offered  the  command  of  a  bat- 
talion, the  old  company  petitioned  to  be  one  of 
his  batteries,  and  still  remained  under  his  com- 
mand. Before  the  first  year  was  out  the  battery 
had,  through  its  own  elements,  and  the  disci- 
pline of  the  Captain,  become  a  cohesive  force, 
and  a  distinct  integer  in  the  Army  of  Northern 
Virginia.  Young  farmer  recruits  knew  of  its 
prestige  and  expressed  preference  for  it  of  many 
batteries  of  rapidly  growing  or  grown  reputa- 
tion. Owing  to  its  high  stand,  the  old  and 
clumsy  guns  with  which  it  had  started  out  were 
taken  from  it,  and  in  their  place  was  presented 
a  battery  of  four  fine,  brass,  twelve-pound  Na- 
poleons of  the  newest  and  most  approved  kind, 
and  two  three-inch  Parrotts,  all  captured.  The 
men  were  as  pleased  with  them  as  children  with 
new  toys.  The  care  and  attention  needed  to 
keep  them  in  prime  order  broke  the  monotony 
of  camp  life.  They  soon  had  abundant  oppor- 
tunities to  test  their  power.  They  worked  ad- 
mirably, carried  far,  and  were  extraordinarily 
accurate  in  their  aim.  The  men  from  admira- 
tion of  their  guns  grew  to  have  first  a  pride  in, 
and  then  an  affection  for,  them,  and  gave  them 

50 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


nicknames  as  they  did  their  comrades ;  the  four 
Napoleons  being  dubbed,  "The  Evangelists," 
and  the  two  rifles  being  "  The  Eagle,"  because 
of  its  scream  and  force,  and  "The  Cat,"  be- 
cause when  it  became  hot  from  rapid  firing  "  It 
jumped, ' '  they  said,  '  •'  like  a  cat. ' '  From  many 
a  hill-top  in  Virginia,  Maryland,  and  Pennsyl- 
vania "The  Evangelists"  spoke  their  hoarse 
message  of  battle  and  death,  "The  Eagle" 
screamed  her  terrible  note,  and  "The  Cat" 
jumped  as  she  spat  her  deadly  shot  from  her 
hot  throat.  In  the  Valley  of  Virginia  ;  on  the 
levels  of  Henri  co  and  Hanover ;  on  the  slopes 
of  Manassas ;  in  the  woods  of  Chancellorsville ; 
on  the  heights  of  Fredericksburg ;  at  Antietam 
and  Gettysburg;  in  the  Spottsylvania  wilder- 
ness, and  again  on  the  Hanover  levels  and  on 
the  lines  before  Petersburg,  the  old  guns  through 
nearly  four  years  roared  from  fiery  throats  their 
deadly  messages.  The  history  of  the  battery 
was  bound  up  with  the  history  of  Lee's  army. 
A  rivalry  sprang  up  among  the  detachments  of 
the  different  guns,  and  their  several  records 
were  jealously  kept.  The  number  of  duels  each 
gun  was  in  was  carefully  counted,  every  scar 
got  in  battle  was  treasured,  and  the  men  around 
their  camp-fires,  at  their  scanty  messes,  or  on 
the  march,  bragged  of  them  among  themselves 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


and  avouched  them  as  witnesses.  New  recruits 
coming  in  to  fill  the  gaps  made  by  the  killed 
and  disabled,  readily  fell  in  with  the  common 
mood  and  caught  the  spirit  like  a  contagion. 
It  was  not  an  uncommon  thing  for  a  wheel  to 
be  smashed  in  by  a  shell,  but  if  it  happened  to 
one  gun  oftener  than  to  another  there  was  envy. 
Two  of  the  Evangelists  seemed  to  be  especially 
favored  in  this  line,  while  the  Cat  was  so 
exempt  as  to  become  the  subject  of  some  de- 
rision. The  men  stood  by  the  guns  till  they 
were  knocked  to  pieces,  and  when  the  fortune 
of  the  day  went  against  them,  had  with  their 
own  hands  oftener  than  once  saved  them  after 
most  of  their  horses  were  killed. 

This  had  happened  in  turn  to  every  gun, 
the  men  at  times  working  like  beavers  in  mud 
up  to  their  thighs  and  under  a  murderous  fire  to 
get  their  guns  out.  Many  a  man  had  been 
killed  tugging  at  trail  or  wheel  when  the  day 
was  against  them ;  but  not  a  gun  had  ever 
been  lost.  At  last  the  evil  day  arrived.  At 
Winchester  a  sudden  and  impetuous  charge 
for  a  while  swept  everything  before  it,  and 
carried  the  knoll  where  the  old  battery  was 
posted ;  but  all  the  guns  were  got  out  by  the 
toiling  and  rapidly  dropping  men,  except  the 
Cat,  which  was  captured  with  its  entire  detach- 

52 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


ment  working  at  it  until  they  were  surrounded 
and  knocked  from  the  piece  by  cavalrymen. 
Most  of  the  men  who  were  not  killed  were 
retaken  before  the  day  was  over,  with  many 
guns ;  but  the  Cat  was  lost.  She  remained  in 
the  enemy's  hands  and  probably  was  being 
turned  against  her  old  comrades  and  lovers. 
The  company  was  inconsolable.  The  death 
of  comrades  was  too  natural  and  common  a 
thing  to  depress  the  men  beyond  what  such 
occurrences  necessarily  did ;  but  to  lose  a  gun  ! 
It  was  like  losing  the  old  Colonel ;  it  was 
worse :  a  gun  was  ranked  as  a  brigadier ;  and 
the  Cat  was  equal  to  a  major-general.  The 
other  guns  seemed  lost  without  her ;  the  Eagle 
especially,  which  generally  went  next  to  her, 
appeared  to  the  men  to  have  a  lonely  and  sub- 
dued air.  The  battery  was  no  longer  the  same : 
it  seemed  broken  and  depleted,  shrunken  to  a 
mere  section.  It  was  worse  than  Cold  Harbor, 
where  over  half  the  men  were  killed  or  wounded. 
The  old  Captain,  now  Colonel  of  the  battalion, 
appreciated  the  loss  and  apprehended  its  effect 
on  the  men  as  much  as  they  themselves  did, 
and  application  was  made  for  a  gun  to  take  the 
place  of  the  lost  piece ;  but  there  was  none  to 
be  had,  as  the  men  said  they  had  known  all 
along.  It  was  added  —  perhaps  by  a  depart- 

53 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


inent  clerk — that  if  they  wanted  a  gun  to  take 
the  place  of  the  one  they  had  lost,  they  had 

better  capture  it.      "  By  ,  we  will,"  they 

said — adding  epithets,  intended  for  the  depart- 
ment clerk  in  his  "bomb-proof,"  not  to  be 
printed  in  this  record — and  they  did.  For 
some  time  afterwards  in  every  engagement  into 
which  they  got  there  used  to  be  speculation 
among  them  as  to  whether  the  Cat  were  not 
there  on  the  other  side ;  some  of  the  men  swear- 
ing they  could  tell  her  report,  and  even  going 
to  the  rash  length  of  offering  bets  on  her  pres- 
ence. 

By  one  of  those  curious  coincidences,  as 
strange  as  anything  in  fiction,  a  new  general 
had,  in  1864,  come  down  across  the  Rapidan 
to  take  Richmond,  and  the  old  battery  had 
found  a  hill-top  in  the  line  in  which  Lee's  army 
lay  stretched  across  * l  the  Wilderness  ' '  country 
to  stop  him.  The  day,  though  early  in  May, 
was  a  hot  one,  and  the  old  battery,  like  most 
others,  had  suffered  fearfully.  Two  of  the  guns 
had  had  wheels  cut  down  by  shells  and  the  men 
had  been  badly  cut  up ;  but  the  fortune  of  the 
day  had  been  with  Lee,  and  a  little  before 
nightfall,  after  a  terrible  fight,  there  was  a  rapid 
advance,  Lee's  infantry  sweeping  everything  be- 
fore it,  and  the  artillery,  after  opening  the  way 

54 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


for  the  charge,  pushing  along  with  it ;  now  un- 
limbering  as  some  vantage-ground  was  gained, 
and  using  canister  with  deadly  effect ;  now 
driving  ahead  again  so  rapidly  that  it  was 
mixed  up  with  the  muskets  when  the  long  line 
of  breastworks  was  carried  with  a  rush,  and 
a  line  of  guns  were  caught  still  hot  from  their 
rapid  work.  As  the  old  battery,  with  lathered 
horses  and  smoke-grimed  men,  swung  up  the 
crest  and  unlimbered  on  the  captured  breast- 
work, a  cheer  went  up  which  was  heard  even 
above  the  long  general  yell  of  the  advancing 
line,  and  for  a  moment  half  the  men  in  the 
battery  crowded  together  around  some  object 
on  the  edge  of  the  redoubt,  yelling  like  mad- 
men. The  next  instant  they  divided,  and  there 
was  the  Cat,  smoke-grimed  and  blood-stained 
and  still  sweating  hot  from  her  last  fire,  being 
dragged  from  her  muddy  ditch  by  as  many  men 
as  could  get  hold  of  trail-rope  or  wheel,  and 
rushed  into  her  old  place  beside  the  Eagle,  in 
time  to  be  double-shotted  with  canister  to  the 
muzzle,  and  to  pour  it  from  among  her  old 
comrades  into  her  now  retiring  former  masters. 
Still,  she  had  a  new  carriage,  and  her  record 
was  lost,  while  those  of  the  other  guns  had  been 
faithfully  kept  by  the  men.  This  made  a  differ- 
ence in  her  position  for  which  even  the  bullets 

55 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


in  her  wheels  did  not  wholly  atone ;  even 
Harris,  the  sergeant  of  her  detachment,  felt 
that. 

It  was  only  a  few  days  later,  however,  that 
abundant  atonement  was  made.  The  new  gen- 
eral did  not  retire  across  the  Rapidan  after  his 
first  defeat,  and  a  new  battle  had  to  be  fought : 
a  battle,  if  anything,  more  furious,  more  ter- 
rible than  the  first,  when  the  dead  filled  the 
trenches  and  covered  the  fields.  He  simply 
inarched  by  the  left  flank,  and  Lee  inarching 
by  the  right  flank  to  head  him,  flung  himself 
upon  him  again  at  Spottsylvania  Court-House. 
That  day  the  Cat,  standing  in  her  place  behind 
the  new  and  temporary  breastwork  thrown  up 
when  the  battery  was  posted,  had  the  felloes  of 
her  wheels,  which  showed  above  the  top  of  the 
bank,  entirely  cut  away  by  Minie-bullets,  so 
that  when  she  jumped  in  the  recoil  her  wheels 
smashed  and  let  her  down.  This  covered  all 
old  scores.  The  other  guns  had  been  cut  down 
by  shells  or  solid  shot ;  but  never  before  had  one 
been  gnawed  down  by  musket-balls.  From  this 
time  all  through  the  campaign  the  Cat  held  her 
own  beside  her  brazen  and  bloody  sisters,  and 
in  the  cold  trenches  before  Petersburg  that  win- 
ter, when  the  new  general — Starvation — had 
joined  the  one  already  there,  she  made  her 

56 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


bloody  mark  as  often  as  any  gun  on  the  long 
lines. 

Thus  the  old  battery  had  come  to  be  kno\vn, 
as  its  old  commander,  now  colonel  of  a  bat- 
talion, had  come  to  be  known  by  those  in  yet 
higher  command.  And  when  in  the  opening 
spring  of  1865  it  became  apparent  to  the  lead- 
ers of  both  armies  that  the  long  line  could  not 
longer  be  held  if  a  force  should  enter  behind  it, 
and,  sweeping  the  one  partially  unswept  portion 
of  Virginia,  cut  the  railways  in  the  southwest, 
and  a  man  was  wanted  to  command  the  artillery 
in  the  expedition  sent  to  meet  this  force,  it  was 
not  remarkable  that  the  old  Colonel  and  his 
battalion  should  be  selected  for  the  work.  The 
force  sent  out  was  but  small ;  for  the  long  line 
was  worn  to  a  thin  one  in  those  days,  and  great 
changes  were  taking  place,  the  consequences  of 
which  were  known  only  to  the  commanders. 
In  a  few  days  the  commander  of  the  expedition 
found  that  he  must  divide  his  small  force  for  a 
time,  at  least,  to  accomplish  his  purpose,  and 
sending  the  old  Colonel  with  one  battery  of 
artillery  to  guard  one  pass,  must  push  on  over 
the  mountain  by  another  way  to  meet  the  ex- 
pected force,  if  possible,  and  repel  it  before  it 
crossed  the  farther  range.  Thus  the  old  bat- 
tery, on  an  April  evening  of  1865,  found  it- 

57 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


self  toiling  alone  up  the  steep  mountain  road 
which  leads  above  the  river  to  the  gap,  which 
formed  the  chief  pass  in  that  part  of  the  Blue 
Ridge.  Both  men  and  horses  looked,  in  the 
dim  and  waning  light  of  the  gray  April  day, 
rather  like  shadows  of  the  beings  they  repre- 
sented than  the  actual  beings  themselves.  And 
anyone  seeing  them  as  they  toiled  painfully  up, 
the  thin  horses  floundering  in  the  mud,  and  the 
men,  often  up  to  their  knees,  tugging  at  the 
sinking  wheels,  now  stopping  to  rest,  and  al- 
ways moving  so  slowly  that  they  seemed  scarcely 
to  advance  at  all,  might  have  thought  them  the 
ghosts  of  some  old  battery  lost  from  some  long 
gone  and  forgotten  war  on  that  deep  and  deso- 
late mountain  road.  Often,  when  they  stopped, 
the  blowing  of  the  horses  and  the  murmuring  of 
the  river  in  its  bed  below  were  the  only  sounds 
heard,  and  the  tired  voices  of  the  men  when 
they  spoke  among  themselves  seemed  hardly 
more  articulate  sounds  than  they.  Then  the 
voice  of  the  mounted  figure  on  the  roan  horse 
half  hidden  in  the  mist  would  cut  in,  clear  and 
inspiring,  in  a  tone  of  encouragement  more 
than  of  command,  and  everything  would  wake 
up :  the  drivers  would  shout  and  crack  their 
whips;  the  horses  would  bend  themselves  on 
the  collars  and  flounder  in  the  mud  j  the  men 

58 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


would  spring  once  more  to  the  mud-clogged 
wheels,  and  the  slow  ascent  would  begin  again. 

The  orders  to  the  Colonel,  as  has  been  said, 
were  brief:  To  hold  the  pass  until  he  received 
further  instructions,  and  not  to  lose  his  guns. 
To  be  ordered,  with  him,  was  to  obey.  The 
last  streak  of  twilight  brought  them  to  the  top 
of  the  pass ;  his  soldier's  instinct  and  a  brief 
recognizance  made  earlier  in  the  day  told  him 
that  this  was  his  place,  and  before  daybreak 
next  morning  the  point  was  as  well  fortified  as 
a  night's  work  by  weary  and  supperless  men 
could  make  it.  A  prettier  spot  could  not  have 
been  found  for  the  purpose ;  a  small  plateau, 
something  over  an  acre  in  extent,  where  a  char- 
coal-burner's hut  had  once  stood,  lay  right  at 
the  top  of  the  pass.  It  was  a  little  higher  on 
either  side  than  in  the  middle,  where  a  small 
brook,  along  which  the  charcoal-burner's  track 
was  yet  visible,  came  down  from  the  wooded 
mountain  above,  thus  giving  a  natural  crest  to 
aid  the  fortification  on  either  side,  with  open 
space  for  the  guns,  while  the  edge  of  the  wood 
coming  down  from  the  mountain  afforded  shel- 
ter for  the  camp. 

As  the  battery  was  unsupported  it  had  to 
rely  on  itself  for  everything,  a  condition  which 
most  soldiers  by  this  time  were  accustomed  to. 

59 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


A  dozen  or  so  of  rifles  were  in  the  camp,  and 
with  these  pickets  were  armed  and  posted.  The 
pass  had  been  seized  none  too  soon ;  a  scout 
brought  in  the  information  before  nightfall  that 
the  invading  force  had  crossed  the  farther 
range  before  that  sent  to  meet  it  could  get 
there,  and  taking  the  nearest  road  had  avoided 
the  main  body  opposing  it,  and  been  met  only 
by  a  rapidly  moving  detachment,  nothing  more 
than  a  scouting  party,  and  now  were  advancing 
rapidly  on  the  road  on  which  they  were  posted, 
evidently  meaning  to  seize  the  pass  and  cross 
the  mountain  at  this  point.  The  day  was  Sun- 
day ;  a  beautiful  Spring  Sunday ;  but  it  was  no 
Sabbath  for  the  old  battery.  All  day  the  men 
worked,  making  and  strengthening  their  re- 
doubt to  guard  the  pass,  and  by  the  next  morn- 
ing, with  the  old  battery  at  the  top,  it  was  im- 
pregnable. They  were  just  in  time.  Before 
noon  their  vedettes  brought  in  \vord  that  the 
enemy  were  ascending  the  mountain,  and  the 
sun  had  hardly  turned  when  the  advance  guard 
rode  up,  came  within  range  of  the  picket,  and 
were  fired  on. 

It  was  apparent  that  they  supposed  the  force 
there  only  a  small   one,  for   they  retired  and 
soon  came  up  again  reinforced  in  some  num- 
bers, and  a  sharp  little  skirmish  ensued,   hot 
60 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


enough  to  make  them  more  prudent  afterwards, 
though  the  picket  retired  up  the  mountain. 
This  gave  them  encouragement  and  probably 
misled  them,  for  they  now  advanced  boldly. 
They  saw  the  redoubt  on  the  crest  as  they  came 
on,  and  unlimbering  a  section  or  two,  flung 
a  few  shells  up  at  it,  which  either  fell  short 
or. passed  over  without  doing  material  damage. 
None  of  the  guns  was  allowed  to  respond, 
as  the  distance  was  too  great  with  the  ammu- 
nition the  battery  had,  and,  indifferent  as  it 
was,  it  was  too  precious  to  be  wasted  in  a  duel 
at  an  ineffectual  range.  Doubtless  deceived  by 
this,  the  enemy  came  on  in  force,  being  obliged 
by  the  character  of  the  ground  to  keep  almost 
entirely  to  the  road,  which  really  made  them 
advance  in  column.  The  battery  waited.  Un- 
der orders  of  the  Colonel  the  guns  standing  in 
line  were  double-shotted  with  canister,  and, 
loaded  to  the  muzzle,  were  trained  down  to 
sweep  the  road  at  from  four  to  five  hundred 
yards'  distance.  And  when  the  column  reached 
this  point  the  six  guns,  aimed  by  old  and  skil- 
ful gunners,  at  a  given  word  swept  road  and 
mountain-side  with  a  storm  of  leaden  hail.  It 
was  a  fire  no  mortal  man  could  stand  up  against, 
and  the  practised  gunners  rammed  their  pieces 
full  again,  and  before  the  smoke  had  cleared  or 
61 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


the  reverberation  had  died  away  among  the 
mountains,  had  fired  the  guns  again  and  yet 
again.  The  road  was  cleared  of  living  things 
when  the  draught  setting  down  the  river 
drew  the  smoke  away ;  but  it  was  no  discredit 
to  the  other  force  ;  for  no  army  that  was  ever 
uniformed  could  stand  against  that  battery 
in  that  pass.  Again  and  again  the  attempt  was 
made  to  get  a  body  of  men  up  under  cover  of 
the  woods  and  rocks  on  the  mountain-side, 
while  the  guns  below  utilized  their  better 
ammunition  from  longer  range ;  but  it  was 
useless.  Although  one  of  the  lieutenants  and 
several  men  were  killed  in  the  skirmish,  and 
a  number  more  were  wounded,  though  not  se- 
verely, the  old  battery  commanded  the  moun- 
tain-side, and  its  skilful  gunners  swept  it  at 
every  point  the  foot  of  man  could  scale.  The 
sun  went  down  flinging  his  last  flame  on  a 
victorious  battery  still  crowning  the  mountain 
pass.  The  dead  were  buried  by  night  in  a 
corner  of  the  little  plateau,  borne  to  their  last 
bivouac  on  the  old  gun-carriages  which  they 
had  stood  by  so  often — which  the  men  said 
would  "  sort  of  ease  their  minds." 

The  next  day  the   fight  was  renewed,   and 
with  the  same  result.     The  old  battery  in  its 
position   was   unconquerable.     Only   one    fear 
62 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


now  faced  them ;  their  ammunition  was  getting 
as  low  as  their  rations  ;  another  such  day  or 
}  half-day  would  exhaust  it.  A  sergeant  was 
sent  back  down  the  mountain  to  try  to  get 
more,  or,  if  not,  to  get  tidings.  The  next  day 
it  was  supposed  the  fight  would  be  renewed ; 
and  the  men  waited,  alert,  eager,  vigilant,  their 
spirits  high,  their  appetite  for  victory  whetted 
by  success.  The  men  were  at  their  breakfast,  or 
what  went  for  breakfast,  scanty  at  all  times,  now 
doubly  so,  hardly  deserving  the  title  of  a  meal, 
so  poor  and  small  were  the  portions  of  corn- 
meal,  cooked  in  their  frying-pans,  which  went 
for  their  rations,  when  the  sound  of  artillery 
below  broke  on  the  quiet  air.  They  were  on 
their  feet  in  an  instant  and  at  the  guns,  crowd- 
ing upon  the  breastwork  to  look  or  to  listen ; 
for  the  road,  as  far  as  could  be  seen  down  the 
mountain,  was  empty  except  for  their  own 
picket,  and  lay  as  quiet  as  if  sleeping  in  the 
balmy  air.  And  yet  volley  after  volley  of  ar- 
tillery came  rolling  up  the  mountain.  What 
could  it  mean  ?  That  the  rest  of  their  force 
had  come  up  and  was  engaged  with  that  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountain  ?  The  Colonel  decided  to 
be  ready  to  go  and  help  them  ;  to  fall  on  the 
enemy  in  the  rear ;  perhaps  they  might  capture 
the  entire  force.  It  seemed  the  natural  thing 

63 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


to  do,  and  the  guns  were  limbered  up  in  an 
incredibly  short  time,  and  a  roadway  made 
through  the  intrenchment,  the  men  working 
like  beavers  under  the  excitement.  Before 
they  had  left  the  redoubt,  however,  the  vedettes 
sent  out  returned  and  reported  that  there  was 
no  engagement  going  on,  and  the  firing  be- 
low seemed  to  be  only  practising.  There  was 
quite  a  stir  in  the  camp  below ;  but  they  had 
not  even  broken  camp.  This  was  mysterious. 
Perhaps  it  meant  that  they  had  received  rein- 
forcements, but  it  was  a  queer  way  of  showing 
it.  The  old  Colonel  sighed  as  he  thought  of 
the  good  ammunition  they  could  throw  away 
down  there,  and  of  his  empty  limber -chests. 
It  was  necessary  to  be  on  the  alert,  however ; 
the  guns  were  run  back  into  their  old  places, 
and  the  horses  picketed  once  more  back  among 
the  trees.  Meantime  he  sent  another  messen- 
ger back,  this  time  a  courier,  for  he  had  but 
one  commissioned  officer  left,  and  the  picket 
below  was  strengthened. 

The  morning  passed  and  no  one  came ;  the 
day  wore  on  and  still  no  advance  was  made 
by  the  force  below.  It  was  suggested  that  the 
enemy  had  left ;  he  had,  at  least,  gotten  enough 
of  that  battery.  A  reconnoissance,  however, 
showed  that  he  was  still  encamped  at  the  foot 

64 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


of  the  mountain.  It  was  conjectured  that  he 
was  trying  to  find  a  way  around  to  take  them 
in  the  rear,  or  to  cross  the  ridge  by  the  foot- 
path. Preparation  was  made  to  guard  more 
closely  the  mountain  -  path  across  the  spur, 
and  a  detachment  was  sent  up  to  strengthen 
the  picket  there.  The  waiting  told  on  the 
men  and  they  grew  bored  and  restless.  They 
gathered  about  the  guns  in  groups  and  talked  ; 
talked  of  each  piece  some,  but  not  with  the 
old  spirit  and  vim;  the  loneliness  of  the 
mountain  seemed  to  oppress  them  ;  the  moun- 
tains stretching  up  so  brown  and  gray  on  one 
side  of  them,  and  so  brown  and  gray  on  the 
other,  with  their  bare,  dark  forests  soughing 
from  time  to  time  as  the  wind  swept  up  the 
pass.  The  minds  of  the  men  seemed  to  go 
back  to  the  time  when  they  were  not  so  alone, 
but  were  part  of  a  great  and  busy  army,  and 
some  of  them  fell  to  talking  of  the  past,  and  the 
battles  they  had  figured  in,  and  of  the  comrades 
they  had  lost.  They  told  them  off  in  a  slow 
and  colorless  way,  as  if  it  were  all  part  of  the 
past  as  much  as  the  dead  they  named.  One 
hundred  and  nineteen  times  they  had  been 
in  action.  Only  seventeen  men  were  left  of 
the  eighty  odd  who  had  first  enlisted  in  the 
battery,  and  of  these  four  were  at  home  crippled 

65 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


for  life.  Two  of  the  oldest  men  had  been 
among  the  half-dozen  who  had  fallen  in  the 
skirmish  just  the  day  before.  It  looked  toler- 
ably hard  to  be  killed  that  way  after  passing  for 
four  years  through  such  battles  as  they  had 
been  in  ;  and  both  had  wives  and  children 
at  home,  too,  and  not  a  cent  to  leave  them 
to  their  names.  They  agreed  calmly  that 
they'd  have  to  "sort  of  look  after  them  a 
little"  if  they  ever  got  home.  These  were 
some  of  the  things  they  talked  about  as  they 
pulled  their  old  worn  coats  about  them,  stuffed 
their  thin,  weather-stained  hands  in  their 
ragged  pockets  to  warm  them,  and  squatted 
down  under  the  breastwork  to  keep  a  little  out 
of  the  wind.  One  thing  they  talked  about 
a  good  deal  was  something  to  eat.  They  de- 
scribed meals  they  had  had  at  one  time  or  an- 
other as  personal  adventures,  and  discussed  the 
chances  of  securing  others  in  the  future  as  if 
they  were  prizes  of  fortune.  One  listening  and 
seeing  their  thin,  worn  faces  and  their  wasted 
frames  might  have  supposed  they  were  starving, 
and  they  were,  but  they  did  not  say  so. 

Towards  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  there 

was  a   sudden    excitement    in    the    camp.     A 

dozen  men  saw  them  at  the  same  time  :  a  squad 

of  three  men  down  the  road  at  the  farthest  turn, 

66 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


past  their  picket ;  but  an  advancing  column 
could  not  have  created  as  much  excitement, 
for  the  middle  man  carried  a  white  flag.  In  a 
minute  every  man  in  the  battery  was  on  the 
breastwork.  What  could  it  mean  !  It  was 
a  long  way  off,  nearly  half  a  mile,  and  the 
flag  was  small :  possibly  only  a  pocket-hand- 
kerchief or  a  napkin ;  but  it  was  held  aloft  as 
a  flag  unmistakably.  A  hundred  conjectures 
were  indulged  in.  Was  it  a  summons  to  sur- 
render ?  A  request  for  an  armistice  for  some 
purpose?  Or  was  it  a  trick  to  ascertain  their 
number  and  position  ?  Some  held  one  view, 
some  another.  Some  extreme  ones  thought 
a  shot  ought  to  be  fired  over  them  to  warn 
them  not  to  come  on  ;  no  flags  of  truce  were 
wanted.  The  old  Colonel,  who  had  walked  to 
the  edge  of  the  plateau  outside  the  redoubt  and 
taken  his  position  where  he  could  study  the 
advancing  figures  with  his  field-glass,  had  not 
spoken.  The  lieutenant  who  was  next  in 
command  to  him  had  walked  out  after  him, 
and  stood  near  him,  from  time  to  time  dropping 
a  word  or  two  of  conjecture  in  a  half- audible 
tone ;  but  the  Colonel  had  not  answered  a 
word  ;  perhaps  none  was  expected.  Suddenly 
he  took  his  glass  down,  and  gave  an  order 
to  the  lieutenant :  < '  Take  two  men  and  meet 

67 


The  Bur Lil  of  the  Guns 


them  at  the  turn  yonder ;  learn  their  business ; 
and  act  as  your  best  judgment  advises.  If 
necessary  to  bring  the  messenger  farther,  bring 
only  the  officer  who  has  the  flag,  and  halt  him 
at  that  rock  yonder,  where  I  will  join  him." 
The  tone  was  as  placid  as  if  such  an  occurrence 
came  every  day.  Two  minutes  later  the  lieu- 
tenant was  on  his  way  down  the  mountain  and 
the  Colonel  had  the  men  in  ranks.  His  face 
was  as  grave  and  his  manner  as  quiet  as  usual, 
neither  more  nor  less  so.  The  men  were  in 
a  state  of  suppressed  excitement.  Having  put 
them  in  charge  of  the  second  sergeant  the 
Colonel  returned  to  the  breastwork.  The  two 
officers  were  slowly  ascending  the  hill,  side  by 
side,  the  bearer  of  the  flag,  now  easily  distin- 
guishable in  his  jaunty  uniform  as  a  captain  of 
cavalry,  talking,  and  the  lieutenant  in  faded 
gray,  faced  with  yet  more  faded  red,  walking 
beside  him  with  a  face  white  even  at  that  dis- 
tance, and  lips  shut  as  though  they  would  never 
open  again.  They  halted  at  the  big  bowlder 
which  the  Colonel  had  indicated,  and  the  lieu- 
tenant, having  saluted  ceremoniously,  turned  to 
come  up  to  the  camp  ;  the  Colonel,  however, 
went  down  to  meet  him.  The  two  men  met, 
but  there  was  no  spoken  question  ;  if  the  Colo- 
nel inquired  it  was  only  with  the  eyes.  The 
68 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


lieutenant  spoke,  however.  "  He  says,"  he 
began  and  stopped,  then  began  again  —  "he 
says,  General  Lee — "  again  he  choked,  then 
blurted  out,  "  I  believe  it  is  all  a  lie — a  damned 
lie." 

"  Not  dead?  Not  killed?  "  said  the  Colo- 
nel, quickly. 

"  No,  not  so  bad  as  that ;  surrendered  :  sur- 
rendered his  entire  army  at  Appomattox  day 
before  yestefday.  I  believe  it  is  all  a  damned 
lie,"  he  broke  out  again,  as  if  the  hot  denial  re- 
lieved him.  The  Colonel  simply  turned  away 
his  face  and  stepped  a  pace  or  two  off,  and  the 
two  men  stood  motionless  back  to  back  for 
more  than  a  minute.  Then  the  Colonel  stirred. 

"  Shall  I  go  back  with  you?  "  the  lieutenant 
asked,  huskily. 

The  Colonel  did  not  answer  immediately. 
Then  he  said  :  "  No,  go  back  to  camp  and 
await  my  return."  He  said  nothing  about 
not  speaking  of  the  report.  He  knew  it  was 
not  needed.  Then  he  went  down  the  hill 
slowly  alone,  while  the  lieutenant  went  up  to 
the  camp. 

The  interview  between  the  two  officers  be- 
side the  bowlder  was  not  a  long  one.  It  con- 
sisted of  a  brief  statement  by  the  Federal  en- 
voy of  the  fact  of  Lee's  surrender  two  days 
69 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


before  near  Appomattox  Court-House,  with  the 
sources  of  his  information,  coupled  with  a  for- 
mal demand  on  the  Colonel  for  his  surrender. 
To  this  the  Colonel  replied  that  he  had  been 
detached  and  put  under  command  of  another 
officer  for  a  specific  purpose,  and  that  his  orders 
were  to  hold  that  pass,  which  he  should  do 
until  he  was  instructed  otherwise  by  his  su- 
perior in  command.  With  that  they  parted, 
ceremoniously,  the  Federal  captain  returning  to 
where  he  had  left  his  horse  in  charge  of  his 
companions  a  little  below,  and  the  old  Colonel 
coming  slowly  up  the  hill  to  camp.  The  men 
were  at  once  set  to  work  to  meet  any  attack 
which  might  be  made.  They  knew  that  the 
message  was  of  grave  import,  but  not  of  how 
grave.  They  thought  it  meant  that  another 
attack  would  be  made  immediately,  and  they 
sprang  to  their  work  with  renewed  vigor,  and  a 
zeal  as  fresh  as  if  it  were  but  the  beginning  and 
not  the  end. 

The  time  wore  on,  however,  and  there  was 
no  demonstration  below,  though  hour  after 
hour  it  was  expected  and  even  hoped  for. 
Just  as  the  sun  sank  into  a  bed  of  blue  cloud 
a  horseman  was  seen  coming  up  the  darkened 
mountain  from  the  eastward  side,  and  in  a  little 
while  practised  eyes  reported  him  one  of  their 
70 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


own  men — the  sergeant  who  had  been  sent  back 
the  day  before  for  ammunition.  He  was  alone, 
and  had  something  white  before  him  on  his 
horse — it  could  not  be  the  ammunition  ;  but 
perhaps  that  might  be  coming  on  behind. 
Every  step  of  his  jaded  horse  was  anxiously 
watched.  As  he  drew  near,  the  lieutenant, 
after  a  word  with  the  Colonel,  walked  down  to 
meet  him,  and  there  was  a  short  colloquy  in 
the  muddy  road  ;  then  they  came  back  to- 
gether and  slowly  entered  the  camp,  the  ser- 
geant handing  down  a  bag  of  corn  which  he 
had  got  somewhere  below,  with  the  grim  re- 
mark to  his  comrades,  "  There's  your  rations," 
and  going  at  once  to  the  Colonel's  camp-fire,  a 
little  to  one  side  among  the  trees,  where  the 
Colonel  awaited  him.  A  long  conference  was 
held,  and  then  the  sergeant  left  to  take  his  luck 
with  his  mess,  who  were  already  parching  the 
corn  he  had  brought  for  their  supper,  while  the 
lieutenant  made  the  round  of  the  camp  ;  leav- 
ing the  Colonel  seated  alone  on  a  log  by  his 
camp-fire.  He  sat  without  moving,  hardly 
stirring  until  the  lieutenant  returned  from  his 
round.  A  minute  later  the  men  were  called 
from  the  guns  and  made  to  fall  into  line.  They 
were  silent,  tremulous  with  suppressed  excite- 
ment ;  the  most  sun-burned  and  weather - 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


stained  of  them  a  little  pale ;  the  meanest,  rag- 
gedest,  and  most  insignificant  not  unimpressive 
in  the  deep  and  solemn  silence  with  which  they 
stood,  their  eyes  fastened  on  the  Colonel,  wait- 
ing for  him  to  speak.  He  stepped  out  in  front 
of  them,  slowly  ran  his  eye  along  the  irregular 
line,  up  and  down,  taking  in  every  man  in  his 
glance,  resting  on  some  longer  than  on  others, 
the  older  men,  then  dropped  them  to  the 
ground,  and  then  suddenly,  as  if  with  an  effort, 
began  to  speak.  His  voice  had  a  somewhat 
metallic  sound,  as  if  it  were  restrained  ;  but  it 
was  otherwise  the  ordinary  tone  of  command. 
It  was  not  much  that  he  said  :  simply  that  it 
had  become  his  duty  to  acquaint  them  with 
the  information  which  he  had  received  :  that 
General  Lee  had  surrendered  two  days  before 
at  Appomattox  Court-House,  yielding  to  over- 
whelming numbers;  that  this  afternoon  when 
he  had  first  heard  the  report  he  had  questioned 
its  truth,  but  that  it  had  been  confirmed  by  one 
of  their  own  men,  and  no  longer  admitted  of 
doubt ;  that  the  rest  of  their  own  force,  it  was 
learned,  had  been  captured,  or  had  disbanded, 
and  the  enemy  was  now  on  both  sides  of  the 
mountain ;  that  a  demand  had  been  made  on 
him  that  morning  to  surrender  too  ;  but  that 
he  had  orders  which  he  felt  held  good  until 
72 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


they  were  countermanded,  and  he  had  declined. 
Later  intelligence  satisfied  him  that  to  attempt 
to  hold  out  further  would  be  useless,  and  would 
involve  needless  waste  of  life ;  he  had  de- 
termined, therefore,  not  to  attempt  to  hold 
their  position  longer  ;  but  to  lead  them  out,  if 
possible,  so  as  to  avoid  being  made  prisoners 
and  enable  them  to  reach  home  sooner  and  aid 
their  families.  His  orders  were  not  to  let  his 
guns  fall  into  the  enemy's  hands,  and  he  should 
take  the  only  step  possible  to  prevent  it.  In 
fifty  minutes  he  should  call  the  battery  into 
line  once  more,  and  roll  the  guns  over  the  cliff 
into  the  river,  and  immediately  afterwards, 
leaving  the  wagons  there,  he  would  try  to  lead 
them  across  the  mountain,  and  as  far  as  they 
could  go  in  a  body  without  being  liable  to  capt- 
ure, and  then  he  should  disband  them,  and  his 
responsibility  for  them  would  end.  As  it  was 
necessary  to  make  some  preparations  he  would 
now  dismiss  them  to  prepare  any  rations  they 
might  have  and  get  ready  to  march. 

All  this  was  in  the  formal  manner  of  a  com- 
mon order  of  the  day ;  and  the  old  Colonel 
had  spoken  in  measured  sentences,  with  little 
feeling  in  his  voice.  Not  a  man  in  the  line 
had  uttered  a  word  after  the  first  sound,  half 
exclamation,  half  groan,  which  had  burst  from 

73 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


them  at  the  announcement  of  Lee's  surrender. 
After  that  they  had  stood  in  their  tracks  like 
rooted  trees,  as  motionless  as  those  on  the 
mountain  behind  them,  their  eyes  fixed  on 
their  commander,  and  only  the  quick  heaving 
up  and  down  the  dark  line,  as  of  horses  over- 
laboring, told  of  the  emotion  which  was  shak- 
ing them.  The  Colonel,  as  he  ended,  half- 
turned  to  his  subordinate  officer  at  the  end  of 
the  dim  line,  as  though  he  were  about  to  turn 
the  company  over  to  him  to  be  dismissed  ;  then 
faced  the  line  again,  and  taking  a  step  nearer, 
with  a  sudden  movement  of  his  hands  towards 
the  men  as  though  he  would  have  stretched 
them  out  to  them,  began  again  : 

"  Men,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  changed  at 
the  word,  and  sounded  like  a  father's  or  a 
brother's,  "  My  men,  I  cannot  let  you  go  so. 
We  were  neighbors  when  the  war  began — many 
of  us,  and  some  not  here  to-night ;  we  have 
been  more  since  then — comrades,  brothers  in 
arms;  we  have  all  stood  for  one  thing — for 
Virginia  and  the  South  ;  we  have  all  done  our 
duty — tried  to  do  our  duty  ;  we  have  fought  a 
good  fight,  and  now  it  seems  to  be  over,  and 
we  have  been  overwhelmed  by  numbers,  not 
whipped — and  we  are  going  home.  We  have 
the  future  before  us — we  don't  know  just  what 

74 


Tbe  Burial  of  the  Guns 


it  will  bring,  but  we  can  stand  a  good  deal. 
We  have  proved  it.  Upon  us  depends  the 
South  in  the  future  as  in  the  past.  You  have 
done  your  duty  in  the  past,  you  will  not  fail  in 
the  future.  Go  home  and  be  honest,  brave, 
self-sacrificing,  God-fearing  citizens,  as  you 
have  been  soldiers,  and  you  need  not  fear  for 
Virginia  and  the  South.  The  war  may  be 
over  ;  but  you  will  ever  be  ready  to  serve  your 
country.  The  end  may  not  be  as  we  wanted 
it,  prayed  for  it,  fought  for  it ;  but  we  can 
trust  God  ;  the  end  in  the  end  will  be  the  best 
that  could  be ;  even  if  the  South  is  not  free  she 
will  be  better  and  stronger  that  she  fought  as 
she  did.  Go  home  and  bring  up  your  children 
to  love  her,  and  though  you  may  have  nothing 
else  to  leave  them,  you  can  leave  them  the 
heritage  that  they  are  sons  of  men  who  were  in 
Lee's  army." 

He  stopped,  looked  up  and  down  the  ranks 
again,  which  had  instinctively  crowded  together 
and  drawn  around  him  in  a  half-circle ;  made 
a  sign  to  the  lieutenant  to  take  charge,  and 
turned  abruptly  on  his  heel  to  walk  away. 
But  as  he  did  so,  the  long  pent-up  emotion 
burst  forth.  With  a  wild  cheer  the  men  seized 
him,  crowding  around  and  hugging  him,  as 
with  protestations,  prayers,  sobs,  oaths  — 

75 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


broken,  incoherent,  inarticulate  —  they  swore 
to  be  faithful,  to  live  loyal  forever  to  the  South, 
to  him,  to  Lee.  Many  of  them  cried  like 
children  ;  others  offered  to  go  down  and  have 
one  more  battle  on  the  plain.  The  old  Colonel 
soothed  them,  and  quieted  their  excitement, 
and  then  gave  a  command  about  the  prepara- 
tions to  be  made.  This  called  them  to  order  at 
once;  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  camp  was 
as  orderly  and  quiet  as  usual :  the  fires  were  re- 
plenished ;  the  scanty  stores  were  being  over- 
hauled ;  the  place  was  selected,  and  being  got 
ready  to  roll  the  guns  over  the  cliff;  the  camp 
was  being  ransacked  for  such  articles  as  could 
be  carried,  and  all  preparations  were  being 
hastily  made  for  their  march. 

The  old  Colonel  having  completed  his 
arrangements  sat  down  by  his  camp-fire  with 
paper  and  pencil,  and  began  to  write  ;  and  as 
the  men  finished  their  work  they  gathered 
about  in  groups,  at  first  around  their  camp- 
fires,  but  shortly  strolled  over  to  where  the 
guns  still  stood  at  the  breastwork,  black  and 
vague  in  the  darkness.  Soon  they  were  all 
assembled  about  the  guns.  One  after  another 
they  visited,  closing  around  it  and  handling  it 
from  muzzle  to  trail  as  a  man  might  a  horse  to 
try  its  sinew  and  bone,  or  a  child  to  feel  its 

76 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


fineness  and  warmth.  They  were  for  the  most 
part  silent,  and  when  any  sound  came  through 
the  dusk  from  them  to  the  officers  at  their  fire, 
it  was  murmurous  and  fitful  as  of  men  speaking 
low  and  brokenly.  There  was  no  sound  of  the 
noisy  controversy  which  was  generally  heard, 
the  give-and-take  of  the  camp-fire,  the  firing 
backwards  and  forwards  that  went  on  on 
the  march  ;  if  a  compliment  was  paid  a  gun  by 
one  of  its  special  detachment,  it  was  accepted 
by  the  others  ;  in  fact,  those  who  had  gen- 
erally run  it  down  now  seemed  most  anxious 
to  accord  the  piece  praise.  Presently  a  small 
number  of  the  men  returned  to  a  camp-fire,  and, 
building  it  up,  seated  themselves  about  it,  gath- 
ering closer  and  closer  together  until  they  were 
in  a  little  knot.  One  of  them  appeared  to  be 
writing,  while  two  or  three  took  up  flaming 
chunks  from  the  fire  and  held  them  as  torches 
for  him  to  see  by.  In  time  the  entire  company 
assembled  about  them,  standing  in  respectful 
silence,  broken  only  occasionally  by  a  reply 
from  one  or  another  to  some  question  from  the 
scribe.  After  a  little  there  was  a  sound  of  a 
roll-call,  and  reading  and  a  short  colloquy  fol- 
lowed, and  then  two  men,  one  with  a  paper  in 
his  hand,  approached  the  fire  beside  which  the 
officers  sat  still  engaged. 

77 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


"  What  is  it,  Harris  ?  "  said  the  Colonel  to 
the  man  with  the  paper,  who  bore  remnants  of 
the  chevrons  of  a  sergeant  on  his  stained  and 
faded  jacket. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  he  said,  with  a  salute, 
"  we  have  been  talking  it  over,  and  we'd  like  this 
paper  to  go  in  along  with  that  you're  writing." 
He  held  it  out  to  the  lieutenant,  who  was  the 
nearer  and  had  reached  forward  to  take  it.  ' '  We 
s'pose  you're  agoin'  to  bury  it  with  the  guns," 
he  said,  hesitatingly,  as  he  handed  it  over. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  Colonel,  shading 
his  eyes  with  his  hands. 

"It's  just  a  little  list  we  made  out  in  and 
among  us,"  he  said,  "  with  a  few  things  we'd 
like  to  put  in,  so's  if  anyone  ever  hauls  'em  out 
they'll  find  it  there  to  tell  what  the  old  battery 
was,  and  if  they  don't,  it'll  be  in  one  of  'em 
down  thar  'til  judgment,  an'  it'll  sort  of  ease 
our  minds  a  bit."  He  stopped  and  waited  as 
a  man  who  had  delivered  his  message.  The 
old  Colonel  had  risen  and  taken  the  paper,  and 
now  held  it  with  a  firm  grasp,  as  if  it  might 
blow  away  with  the  rising  wind.  He  did  not 
say  a  word,  but  his  hand  shook  a  little  as  he 
proceeded  to  fold  it  carefully,  and  there  was  a 
burning  gleam  in  his  deep-set  eyes,  back  under 
his  bushy,  gray  brows. 

78 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


"Will  you  sort  of  look  over  it,  sir,  if  you 
think  it's  worth  while?  We  was  in  a  sort  of 
hurry  and  we  had  to  put  it  down  just  as  we 
come  to  it;  we  didn't  have  time  to  pick  our 
ammunition;  and  it  ain't  written  the  best  in 
the  world,  nohow."  He  waited  again,  and 
the  Colonel  opened  the  paper  and  glanced 
down  at  it  mechanically.  It  contained  first  a 
roster,  headed  by  the  list  of  six  guns,  named 
byname:  "Matthew,"  "Mark,"  "Luke," 
and"  John,"  "The  Eagle,"  and  "  The  Cat  "  ; 
then  of  the  men,  beginning  with  the  heading  : 

"Those  killed." 

Then  had  followed  "Those  wounded,"  but 
this  was  marked  out.  Then  came  a  roster  of 
the  company  when  it  first  entered  service ; 
then  of  those  who  had  joined  afterward  ;  then 
of  those  who  were  present  now.  At  the  end 
of  all  there  was  this  statement,  not  very  well 
written,  nor  wholly  accurately  spelt : 

"  To  \yhom  it  may  Concern  :  We,  the  above 
members  of  the  old  battery  known,  etc.,  of  six 
guns,  named,  etc.,  commanded  by  the  said 
Col.  etc.,  left  on  the  nth  day  of  April,  1865, 
have  made  out  this  roll  of  the  battery,  them  as 
is  gone  and  them  as  is  left,  to  bury  wifh  the 

79 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


guns  which  the  same  we  bury  this  night.  We're 
all  volunteers,  every  man  ;  we  joined  the  ar- 
my at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  and  we've 
stuck  through  to  the  end  j  sometimes  we  aint 
had  much  to  eat,  and  sometimes  we  aint  had 
nothin',  but  we've  fought  the  best  we  could 
119  battles  and  skirmishes  as  near  as  we  can 
make  out  in  four  years,  and  never  lost  a  gun. 
Now  we're  agoin'  home.  We  aint  surrendered  ; 
just  disbanded,  and  we  pledges  ourselves  to 
teach  our  children  to  love  the  South  and 
General  Lee  ;  and  to  come  when  we're  called 
anywheres  an'  anytime,  so  help  us  God." 

There  was  a  dead  silence  whilst  the  Colonel 
read. 

"  'Taint  entirely  accurite,  sir,  in  one  par- 
ticular, ' '  said  the  sergeant,  apologetically ;  "but 
we  thought  it  would  be  playin'  it  sort  o'  low 
clown  on  the  Cat  if  we  was  to  say  we  lost  her 
unless  we  could  tell  about  gittin'  of  her  back, 
and  the  way  she  done  since,  and  we  didn't 
have  time  to  do  all  that."  He  looked  around 
as  if  to  receive  the  corroboration  of  the  other 
men,  which  they  signified  by  nods  and  shuf- 
fling. 

The  Colonel  said  it  was  all  right,  and  the 
paper  should  go  into  the  guns. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  the  guns  are  all  loaded," 
80 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


said  the  sergeant;  "in  and  about  our  last 
charge,  too  ;  and  we'd  like  to  fire  'em  off  once 
more,  jist  for  old  times'  sake  to  remember  'em 
by,  if  you  don't  think  no  harm  could  come  of 
it?" 

The  Colonel  reflected  a  moment  and  said  it 
might  be  done;  they  might  fire  each  gun 
separately  as  they  rolled  it  over,  or  might  get 
all  ready  and  fire  together,  and  then  roll  them 
over,  whichever  they  wished.  This  was  satis- 
factory. 

The  men  were  then  ordered  to  prepare  to 
march  immediately,  and  withdrew  for  the  pur- 
pose. The  pickets  were  called  in.  In  a  short 
time  they  were  ready,  horses  and  all,  just  as 
they  would  have  been  to  march  ordinarily,  ex- 
cept that  the  wagons  and  caissons  were  packed 
over  in  one  corner  by  the  camp  with  the  harness 
hung  on  poles  beside  them,  and  the  guns  stood 
in  their  old  places  at  the  breastwork  ready 
to  defend  the  pass.  The  embers  of  the  sinking 
camp-fires  threw  a  faint  light  on  them  standing 
so  still  and  silent.  The  old  Colonel  took  his 
place,  and  at  a  command  from  him  in  a  some- 
what low  voice,  the  men,  except  a  detail  left  to 
hold  the  horses,  moved  into  company-front  fac- 
ing the  guns.  Not  a  word  was  spoken,  except 
the  words  of  command.  At  the  order  each  de- 
Si 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


tachment  went  to  its  gun  ;  the  guns  were  run 
back  and  the  men  with  their  own  hands  ran 
them  up  on  the  edge  of  the  perpendicular  bluff 
above  the  river,  where,  sheer  below,  its  waters 
washed  its  base,  as  if  to  face  an  enemy  on 
the  black  mountain  the  other  side.  The  pieces 
stood  ranged  in  the  order  in  which  they  had  so 
often  stood  in  battle,  and  the  gray,  thin  fog 
rising  slowly  and  silently  from  the  river  deep 
down  between  the  cliffs,  and  wreathing  the 
mountain-side  above,  might  have  been  the 
smoke  from  some  unearthly  battle  fought  in  the 
dim  pass  by  ghostly  guns,  yet  posted  there  in 
the  darkness,  manned  by  phantom  gunners, 
while  phantom  horses  stood  behind,  lit  vague- 
ly up  by  phantom  camp-fires.  At  the  given 
word  the  laniards  were  pulled  together,  and  to- 
gether as  one  the  six  black  guns,  belching  flame 
and  lead,  roared  their  last  challenge  on  the 
misty  night,  sending  a  deadly  hail  of  shot  and 
shell,  tearing  the  trees  and  splintering  the  rocks 
of  the  farther  side,  and  sending  the  thunder 
reverberating  through  the  pass  and  down  the 
mountain,  startling  from  its  slumber  the  sleep- 
ing camp  on  the  hills  below,  and  driving  the 
browsing  deer  and  the  prowling  mountain-fox 
in  terror  up  the  mountain. 

There  was  silence  among  the  men  about  the 
82 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


guns  for  one  brief  instant  and  then  such  a  cheer 
burst  forth  as  had  never  broken  from  them  even 
in  battle :  cheer  on  cheer,  the  long,  wild,  old 
familiar  rebel  yell  for  the  guns  they  had  fought 
with  and  loved. 

The  noise  had  not  died  away  and  the  men 
behind  were  still  trying  to  quiet  the  frightened 
horses  when  the  sergeant,  the  same  who  had 
written,  received  from  the  hand  of  the  Colonel 
a  long  package  or  roll  which  contained  the 
records  of  the  battery  furnished  by  the  men  and 
by  the  Colonel  himself,  securely  wrapped  to 
make  them  water-tight,  and  it  was  rammed 
down  the  yet  warm  throat  of  the  nearest  gun  : 
the  Cat,  and  then  the  gun  was  tamped  to  the 
muzzle  to  make  her  water-tight,  and,  like  her 
sisters,  was  spiked,  and  her  vent  tamped  tight. 
All  this  took  but  a  minute,  and  the  next  instant 
the  guns  were  run  up  once  more  to  the  edge  of 
the  cliff;  and  the  men  stood  by  them  with 
their  hands  still  on  them.  A  deadly  silence 
fell  on  the  men,  and  even  the  horses  behind 
seemed  to  feel  the  spell.  There  was  a  long 
pause,  in  which  not  a  breath  was  heard  from 
any  man,  and  the  soughing  of  the  tree-tops 
above  and  the  rushing  of  the  rapids  below  were 
the  only  sounds.  They  seemed  to  come  from 
far,  very  far  away.  Then  the  Colonel  said, 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


quietly,  "  Let  them  go,  and  God  be  our  helper, 
Amen."  There  was  the  noise  in  the  darkness 
of  trampling  and  scraping  on  the  cliff-top  for  a 
second  ;  the  sound  as  of  men  straining  hard  to- 
gether, and  then  with  a  pant  it  ceased  all  at 
once,  and  the  men  held  their  breath  to  hear. 
One  second  of  utter  silence;  then  one  pro- 
longed, deep,  resounding  splash  sending  up  a 
great  mass  of  white  foam  as  the  brass-pieces  to- 
gether plunged  into  the  dark  water  below,  and 
then  the  soughing  of  the  trees  and  the  murmur 
of  the  river  came  again  with  painful  distinct- 
ness. It  was  full  ten  minutes  before  the 
Colonel  spoke,  though  there  were  other  sounds 
enough  in  the  darkness,  and  some  of  the  men, 
as  the  dark,  outstretched  bodies  showed,  were 
lying  on  the  ground  flat  on  their  faces.  Then 
the  Colonel  gave  the  command  to  fall  in  in  the 
same  quiet,  grave  tone  he  had  used  all  night. 
The  line  fell  in,  the  men  getting  to  their  horses 
and  mounting  in  silence;  the  Colonel  put  him- 
self at  their  head  and  gave  the  order  of  march, 
and  the  dark  line  turned  in  the  darkness,  crossed 
the  little  plateau  between  the  smouldering  camp- 
fires  and  the  spectral  caissons  with  the  harness 
hanging  beside  them,  and  slowly  entered  the 
dim  charcoal-burner's  track.  Not  a  word  was 
spoken  as  they  moved  off.  They  might  all 
84 


The  Burial  of  the  Guns 


have  been  phantoms.  Only,  the  sergeant  in  the 
rear,  as  he  crossed  the  little  breastwork  which 
ran  along  the  upper  side  and  marked  the  boun- 
dary of  the  little  camp,  half  turned  and  glanced 
at  the  dying  fires,  the  low,  newly  made  mounds 
in  the  corner,  the  abandoned  caissons,  and  the 
empty  redoubt,  and  said,  slowly,  in  a  low  voice 
to  himself, 

"Well,  by  God!" 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "  No.  4. 


THE  GRAY  JACKET  OF  -NO.  4" 

MY  meeting  with  him  was  accidental.  I 
came  across  him  passing  through  "  the 
square."  I  had  seen  him  once  or  twice  on  the 
street,  each  time  lurching  along  so  drunk  that 
he  could  scarcely  stagger,  so  that  I  was  sur- 
prised to  hear  what  he  said  about  the  war.  He 
was  talking  to  someone  who  evidently  had  been 
in  the  army  himself,  but  on  the  other  side — a 
gentleman  with  the  loyal-legion  button  in  his 
coat,  and  with  a  beautiful  scar,  a  sabre-cut 
across  his  face.  He  was  telling  of  a  charge  in 
some  battle  or  skirmish  in  which,  he  declared, 
his  company,  not  himself — for  I  remember  he 
said  he  was  "No.  4,"  and  was  generally  told 
off  to  hold  the  horses  ;  and  that  that  day  he 
had  had  the  ill  luck  to  lose  his  horse  and  get  a 
little  scratch  himself,  so  he  was  not  in  the 
charge — did  the  finest  work  he  ever  saw,  and 
really  (so  he  claimed)  saved  the  day.  It  was 
this  self-abnegation  that  first  arrested  my  at- 
tention, for  I  had  been  accustomed  all  my  life 
89 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "No.  4  " 


to  hear  the  war  talked  of ;  it  was  one  of  the  in- 
spiring influences  in  my  humdrum  existence. 
But  the  speakers,  although  they  generally 
boasted  of  their  commands,  never  of  themselves 
individually,  usually  admitted  that  they  them- 
selves had  been  in  the  active  force,  and  thus 
tacitly  shared  in  the  credit.  "No.  4,"  how- 
ever, expressly  disclaimed  that  he  was  entitled 
to  any  of  the  praise,  declaring  that  he  was 
safe  behind  the  crest  of  the  hill  (which  he 
said  he  "  hugged  mighty  close  "),  and  claimed 
the  glory  for  the  rest  of  the  command. 

"  It  happened  just  as  I  have  told  you  here," 
he  said,  in  closing.  "Old  Joe  saw  the  point 
as  soon  as  the  battery  went  to  work,  and  sent 
Binford  Terrell  to  the  colonel  to  ask  him  to  let 
him  go  over  there  and  take  it  ;  and  when  Joe 
gave  the  word  the  boys  went.  They  didn't  go 
at  a  walk  either,  I  tell  you  ;  it  wasn't  any  prom- 
enade :  they  went  clipping.  At  first  the  guns 
shot  over  'em;  didn't  catch  'em  till  the  third 
fire  ;  then  they  played  the  devil  with  'em  :  but 
the  boys  were  up  there  right  in  'em  before  they 
could  do  much.  They  turned  the  guns  on  'em 
as  they  went  down  the  hill  (oh,  our  boys  could 
handle  the  tubes  then  as  well  as  the  artillery 
themselves),  and  in  a  little  while  the  rest  of  the 
line  came  up,  and  we  formed  a  line  of  battle 
90 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "  No.  4  " 

right  there  on  that  crest,  and  held  it  till  nearly 
night.  That's  when  I  got  jabbed.  I  picked  up 
another  horse,  and  with  my  foolishness  went 
over  there.  That  evening,  you  know,  you  all 
charged  us — we  were  dismounted  then.  We 
lost  more  men  then  than  we  had  done  all  day ; 
there  were  forty  -  seven  out  of  seventy  -  two 
killed  or  wounded.  They  walked  all  over  us  ; 
two  of  'em  got  hold  of  me  (you  see,  I  went  to 
get  our  old  flag  some  of  you  had  got  hold  of), 
but  I  was  too  worthless  to  die.  There  were  lots 
of  'em  did  go  though,  I  tell  you  ;  old  Joe  in  the 
lead.  Yes,  sir  ;  the  old  company  won  that  day, 
and  old  Joe  led  'em.  There  ain't  but  a  few  of 
us  left  ;  but  when  you  want  us,  Colonel,  you 
can  get  us.  We'll  stand  by  you." 

He  paused  in  deep  reflection  ;  his  mind  evi- 
dently back  with  his  old  company  and  its 
gallant  commander  "old  Joe,"  whoever  he 
might  be,  who  was  remembered  so  long  after 
he  passed  away  in  the  wind  and  smoke  of  that 
unnamed  evening  battle.  I  took  a  good  look 
at  him — at  "No.  4,"  as  he  called  himself.  He 
was  tall,  but  stooped  a  little  ;  his  features  were 
good,  at  least  his  nose  and  brow  were ;  his 
mouth  and  chin  were  weak.  His  mouth  was 
too  stained  with  the  tobacco  which  he  chewed 
to  tell  much  about  it — and  his  chin  was  like  so 

9* 


Tbe  Gray  Jacket  of  "  No.  4" 

many  American  chins,  not  strong.  His  eyes 
looked  weak.  His  clothes  were  very  much  worn, 
but  they  had  once  been  good  ;  they  formerly 
had  been  black,  and  well  made;  the  buttons 
were  all  on.  His  shirt  was  clean.  I  took  note 
of  this,  for  he  had  a  dissipated  look,  and  a  rum- 
pled shirt  would  have  been  natural.  A  man's 
linen  tells  on  him  before  his  other  clothes. 
His  listener  had  evidently  been  impressed  by 
him  also,  for  he  arose,  and  said,  abruptly, 
"  Let's  go  and  take  a  drink."  To  my  surprise 
"  No.  4  "  declined.  "  No,  I  thank  you,"  he 
said,  with  promptness.  I  instinctively  looked 
at  him  again  to  see  if  I  had  not  misjudged  him  ; 
but  I  concluded  not,  that  I  was  right,  and  that 
he  was  simply  "  not  drinking."  I  was  flattered 
at  my  discrimination  when  I  heard  him  say  that 
he  had  ' i  sworn  off. ' '  His  friend  said  no  more, 
but  remained  standing  while  "No.  4"  expa- 
tiated on  the  difference  between  a  man  who  is 
drinking  and  one  who  is  not.  I  never  heard  a 
more  striking  exposition  of  it.  He  said  he 
wondered  that  any  man  could  be  such  a  fool  as 
to  drink  liquor  ;  that  he  had  determined  never 
to  touch  another  drop.  He  presently  relapsed 
into  silence,  and  the  other  reached  out  his  hand 
to  say  good-by.  Suddenly  rising,  he  said  : 
"  Well,  suppose  we  go  and  have  just  one  for  old 
92 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "No.  4  " 


times'  sake.  Just  one  now,  mind  you  ;  for  I 

have  not  touched  a  drop  in "  He  turned 

away,  and  I  did  not  catch  the  length  of  the  time 
mentioned.  But  I  have  reason  to  believe  that 
"  No.  4  "  overstated  it. 

The  next  time  I  saw  him  was  in  the  police 
court.  I  happened  to  be  there  when  he  walked 
out  of  the  pen  among  as  miscellaneous  a  lot 
of  chronic  drunkards,  thieves,  and  miscreants 
of  both  sexes  and  several  colors  as  were  ever 
gathered  together.  He  still  had  on  his  old  black 
suit,  buttoned  up ;  but  his  linen  was  rumpled 
and  soiled  like  himself,  and  he  was  manifestly 
just  getting  over  a  debauch,  the  effects  of  which 
were  still  visible  on  him  in  every  line  of  his 
perspiring  face  and  thin  figure.  He  walked  with 
that  exaggerated  erectness  which  told  his  self- 
deluded  state  as  plainly  as  if  he  had  pronounced 
it  in  words.  He  had  evidently  been  there  be- 
fore, and  more  than  once.  The  justice  nodded 
to  him  familiarly : 

"Here  again?"  he  asked,  in  a  tone  part 
pleasantry,  part  regret. 

'  •'  Yes,  your  honor.  Met  an  old  soldier  last 
night,  and  took  a  drop  for  good  fellowship,  and 
before  I  knew  it "  A  shrug  of  the  shoul- 
ders completed  the  sentence,  and  the  shoulders 
did  not  straighten  any  more. 

93 


Tbe  Gray  Jacket  of  "No. 


The  tall  officer  who  had  picked  him  up  said 
something  to  the  justice  in  a  tone  too  low  for 
me  to  catch  ;  but  "  No.  4  "  heard  it — it  was 
evidently  a  statement  against  him — for  he  started 
to  speak  in  a  deprecating  way.  The  judge  in- 
terrupted him  : 

"  I  thought  you  told  me  last  time  that  if  I  let 
you  go  you  would  not  take  another  drink  for  a 
year." 

"  I  forgot,"  said  "  No.  4,"  in  a  low  voice. 

"  This  officer  says  you  resisted  him?  " 

The  officer  looked  stolidly  at  the  prisoner  as 
if  it  were  a  matter  of  not  the  slightest  interest  to 
him  personally.  "  Cursed  me  and  abused  me," 
he  said,  dropping  the  words  slowly  as  if  he  were 
checking  off  a  schedule. 

"  I  did  not,  your  honor  ;  indeed,  I  did  not," 
said  "  No.  4,"  quickly.  "  I  swear  I  did  not; 
he  is  mistaken.  Your  honor  does  not  believe  I 
would  tell  you  a  lie  !  Surely  I  have  not  got  so 
low  as  that." 

The  justice  turned  his  pencil  in  his  hand 
doubtfully,  and  looked  away.  "  No.  4  "  took 
in  his  position.  He  began  again. 

"  I  fell  in  with  an  old  soldier,  and  we  got  to 
talking  about  the  war — about  old  times."  His 
voice  was  very  soft.  "  I  will  promise  your  honor 
that  I  won't  take  another  drink  for  a  year. 

94 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "  No.  4" 

Here,  I'll  take  an  oath  to  it.  Swear  me."  He 
seized  the  greasy  little  Bible  on  the  desk  before 
him,  and  handed  it  to  the  justice.  The  magis- 
trate took  it  doubtfully  He  looked  down  at 
the  prisoner  half  kindly,  half  humorously. 

"You'll  just  break  it."  He  started  to  lay 
the  book  down. 

"  No  ;  I  want  to  take  the  pledge,"  said  "  No. 
4,"  eagerly.  "  Did  I  ever  break  a  pledge  I 
made  to  your  honor  ?  " 

"  Didn't  you  promise  me  not  to  come  back 
here?" 

"  I  have  not  been  here  for  nine  months.  Be- 
sides, I  did  not  come  of  my  own  free  will,"  said 
"  No.  4,"  with  a  faint  flicker  of  humor  on  his 
perspiring  face. 

"  You  were  here  two  months  ago,  and  you 
promised  not  to  take  another  drink. ' ' 

"  I  forgot  that.  I  did  not  mean  to  break  it ; 
indeed,  I  did  not.  I  fell  in  with " 

The  justice  looked  away,  considered  a  mo- 
ment, and  ordered  him  back  into  the  pen  with, 
"  Ten  days,  to  cool  off." 

"No.  4"  stood  quite  still  till  the  officer 
motioned  him  to  the  gate,  behind  which  the 
prisoners  sat  in  stolid  rows.  Then  he  walked 
dejectedly  back  into  the  pen,  and  sat  down  by 
another  drunkard.  His  look  touched  me,  and 

95 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "No.  4" 


I  went  around  and  talked  to  the  magistrate  pri- 
vately. But  he  was  inexorable  ;  he  said  he 
knew  more  of  him  than  I  did,  and  that  ten 
days  in  jail  would  "  dry  him  out  and  be  good 
for  him."  I  told  him  the  story  of  the  battle. 
He  knew  it  already,  and  said  he  knew  more 
than  that  about  him ;  that  he  had  been  one  of 
the  bravest  soldiers  in  the  whole  army  ;  did  not 
know  what  fear  was  ;  had  once  ridden  into  the 
enemy  and  torn  a  captured  standard  from  its 
captors'  hands,  receiving  two  desperate  bayonet- 
wounds  in  doing  it ;  and  had  done  other  acts 
of  conspicuous  gallantry  on  many  occasions. 
I  pleaded  this,  but  he  was  obdurate  ;  hard,  I 
thought  at  the  time,  and  told  him  so  ;  told  him 
he  had  been  a  soldier  himself,  and  ought  to  be 
easier.  He  looked  troubled,  not  offended  ;  for 
we  were  friends,  and  I  think  he  liked  to  see  me, 
who  had  been  a  boy  during  the  war,  take  up  for 
an  old  soldier  on  that  ground.  But  he  stood 
firm.  I  must  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that  1 
now  think  it  would  not  have  made  any  differ- 
ence if  he  had  done  otherwise.  He  had  tried 
the  other  course  many  times. 

' '  No.  4  ' '  must  have  heard  me  trying  to  help 

him,  for  one  day,  about  a  month  after  that,  he 

walked    in   on   me   quite   sober,    and   looking 

somewhat  as  he  did  the  first  day  I  saw  him, 

96 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "  No.  4" 

thanked  me  for  what  I  had  done  for  him ;  de- 
livered one  of  the  most  impressive  discourses 
on  intemperance  that  I  ever  heard  ;  and  asked 
me  to  try  to  help  him  get  work.  He  was  willing 
to  do  anything,  he  said  ;  that  is,  anything  he 
could  do.  I  got  him  a  place  with  a  friend  of 
mine  which  he  kept  a  week,  then  got  drunk. 
We  got  hold  of  him,  however,  and  sobered  him 
up,  and  he  escaped  the  police  and  the  justice's 
court.  Being  out  of  work,  and  very  firm  in  his 
resolution  never  to  drink  again,  we  lent  him 
some  money — a  very  little  —  with  which  to 
keep  along  a  few  days,  on  which  he  got  drunk 
immediately,  and  did  fall  into  the  hands  of  the 
police,  and  was  sent  to  jail  as  before.  This,  in 
fact,  was  his  regular  round  :  into  jail,  out  of  jail ; 
a  little  spell  of  sobriety,  "  an  accidental  fall," 
which  occurred  as  soon  as  he  could  get  a  drop 
of  liquor,  and  into  jail  again  for  thirty  or  sixty 
days,  according  to  the  degree  of  resistance  he 
gave  the  police — who  always,  by  their  own  ac- 
count, simply  tried  to  get  him  to  go  home, 
and,  by  his,  insulted  him — and  to  the  violence 
of  the  language  he  applied  to  them.  In  this  he 
excelled  ;  for  although  as  quiet  as  possible  when 
he  was  sober,  when  he  was  drunk  he  was  a  ter- 
ror, so  the  police  said,  and  his  resources  of  vi- 
tuperation were  cyclopedic.  He  possessed  in 

97 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "  No.  4  " 

this  particular  department  an  eloquence  which 
was  incredible.  His  blasphemy  was  vast,  illim- 
itable, infinite.  He  told  me  once  that  he  could 
not  explain  it ;  that  when  he  was  sober  he  ab- 
horred profanity,  and  never  uttered  an  oath  ; 
when  he  was  in  liquor  his  brain  took  this  turn, 
and  distilled  blasphemy  in  volumes.  He  said 
that  all  of  its  energies  were  quickened  and  con- 
centrated in  this  direction,  and  then  he  took 
not  only  pleasure,  but  pride  in  it. 

He  told  me  a  good  deal  of  his  life.  He  had 
got  very  low  at  this  time,  much  lower  than  he 
had  been  when  I  first  knew  him.  He  recog- 
nized this  himself,  and  used  to  analyze  and  dis- 
cuss himself  in  quite  an  impersonal  way.  This 
was  when  he  had  come  out  of  jail,  and  after 
having  the  liquor  ' '  dried  out ' '  of  him.  In  such 
a  state  he  always  referred  to  his  condition  in 
the  past  as  being  something  that  never  would 
or  could  recur ;  while  on  the  other  hand,  if  he 
were  just  over  a  drunk,  he  frankly  admitted  his 
absolute  slavery  to  his  habit.  When  he  was 
getting  drunk  he  shamelessly  maintained,  and 
was  ready  to  swear  on  all  the  Bibles  in  creation, 
that  he  had  not  touched  a  drop,  and  never  ex- 
pected to  do  so  again  —  indeed,  could  not  be 
induced  to  do  it — when  in  fact  he  would  at 
the  very  time  be  reeking  with  the  fumes  of  liquor, 
98 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "  No.  4" 

and  perhaps  had  his  pocket  then  bulging  with 
a  bottle  which  he  had  just  emptied,  and  would 
willingly  have  bartered  his  soul  to  refill. 

I  never  saw  such  absolute  dominion  as  the 
love  of  liquor  had  over  him.  He  was  like  a 
man  in  chains.  He  confessed  it  frankly  and 
calmly.  He  said  he  had  a  disease,  and  gave 
me  a  history  of  it.  It  came  on  him,  he  said, 
in  spells ;  that  when  he  was  over  one  he  ab- 
horred it,  but  when  the  fit  seized  him  it  came 
suddenly,  and  he  was  in  absolute  slavery  to  it. 
He  said  his  father  was  a  gentleman  of  convivial 
habits  (I  have  heard  that  he  was  very  dissipated, 
though  not  openly  so,  and  "  No.  4  "  never 
admitted  it).  He  was  killed  at  the  battle  of 
Bull  Run.  His  mother — he  always  spoke  of  her 
with  unvarying  tenderness  and  reverence — had 
suffered  enough,  he  said,  to  canonize  her  if  she 
were  not  a  saint  already  ;  she  had  brought  him 
up  to  have  a  great  horror  of  liquor,  and  he  had 
never  touched  it  till  he  went  into  the  army.  In 
the  army  he  was  in  a  convivial  crowd,  and  they 
had  hard  marching  and  poor  rations,  often  none. 
Liquor  was  scarce,  and  was  regarded  as  a  luxury; 
so  although  he  was  very  much  afraid  of  it,  yet 
for  good  fellowship's  sake,  and  because  it  was 
considered  mannish,  he  used  to  drink  it.  Then 
he  got  to  like  it ;  and  then  got  to  feel  the  need 

99 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "  No.  4" 


of  it,  and  took  it  to  stimulate  him  when  he  was 
run  down.  This  want  brought  with  it  a  great 
depression  when  he  did  not  have  the  means  to 
satisfy  it.  He  never  liked  the  actual  taste  of  it ; 
he  said  few  drunkards  did.  It  was  the  effect 
that  he  was  always  after.  This  increased  on 
him,  he  said,  until  finally  it  was  no  longer  a 
desire,  but  a  passion,  a  necessity;  he  was  obliged 
to  have  it.  He  felt  then  that  he  would  commit 
murder  for  it.  "  Why,  I  dream  about  it,"  he 
said.  "  I  will  tell  you  what  I  have  done.  I  have 
made  the  most  solemn  vows,  and  have  gone  to 
bed  and  gone  to  sleep,  and  waked  up  and  dressed 
and  walked  miles  through  the  rain  and  snow  to 
get  it.  I  believe  I  would  have  done  it  if  I  had 
known  I  was  going  next  moment  to  hell."  He 
said  it  had  ruined  him  ;  said  so  quite  calmly  ; 
did  not  appear  to  have  any  special  remorse 
about  it ;  at  least,  never  professed  any  ;  said  it 
used  to  trouble  him,  but  he  had  got  over  it  now. 
He  had  had  a  plantation  —  that  is,  his  mother 
had  had — and  he  had  been  quite  successful  for 
a  while;  but  he  said,  "A  man  can't  drink 
liquor  and  run  a  farm,"  and  the  farm  had  gone. 

I  asked  him  how  ? 

"  I  sold  it,"  he  said  calmly  ;  "  that  is,  per- 
suaded my  mother  to  sell  it^  The  stock  that 
belonged  to  me  had  nearly  all  gone  before.  A 
100 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "No.  4" 

man  who  is  drinking  will  sell  anything,"  he  said. 
"  I  have  sold  everything  in  the  world  I  had,  or 
could  lay  my  hands  on.  I  have  never  got  quite 
so  low  as  to  sell  my  old  gray  jacket  that  I  used 
to  wear  when  I  rode  behind  old  Joe.  I  mean 
to  be  buried  in  that — if  I  can  keep  it." 

He  had  been  engaged  to  a  nice  girl;  the 
wedding-day  had  been  fixed ;  but  she  had 
broken  off  the  engagement.  She  married 
another  man.  "  She  was  a  mighty  nice  girl," 
he  said,  quietly.  "  Her  people  did  not  like 
my  drinking  so  much.  I  passed  her  not 
long  ago  on  the  street.  She  did  not  know 
me."  He  glanced  down  at  himself  quietly. 
"She  looks  older  than  she  did."  He  said 
that  he  had  had  a  place  for  some  time,  did 
not  drink  a  drop  for  nearly  a  year,  and  then 
got  with  some  of  the  old  fellows,  and  they  per- 
suaded him  to  take  a  little.  "  I  cannot  touch 
it.  I  have  either  got  to  drink  or  let  it  alone — 
one  thing  or  the  other,"  he  said.  "  But  I  am 
all  right  now,"  he  declared  triumphantly,  a  lit- 
tle of  the  old  fire  lighting  up  in  his  face.  "  I 
never  expect  to  touch  a  drop  again. ' ' 

He  spoke  so  firmly  that  I  was  persuaded  to 

make  him  a  little  loan,  taking  his  due-bill  for 

it,  which  he  always  insisted  on  giving.     That 

evening  I   saw   him   being  dragged  along   by 

101 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "No.  4" 


three  policemen,  and  he  was  cursing  like  a 
demon. 

In  the  course  of  time  he  got  so  low  that  he 
spent  much  more  than  half  his  time  in  jail. 
He  became  a  perfect  vagabond,  and  with  his 
clothes  ragged  and  dirty  might  be  seen  reeling 
about  or  standing  around  the  street  corners  near 
disreputable  bars,  waiting  for  a  chance  drink,  or 
sitting  asleep  in  doorways  of  untenanted  build- 
ings. His  companions  would  be  one  or  two 
chronic  drunkards  like  himself,  with  red  noses, 
bloated  faces,  dry  hair,  and  filthy  clothes. 
Sometimes  I  would  see  him  hurrying  along  with 
one  of  these  as  if  they  had  a  piece  of  the  most 
important  business  in  the  world.  An  idea  had 
struck  their  addled  brains  that  by  some  means 
they  could  manage  to  secure  a  drink.  Yet  in 
some  way  he  still  held  himself  above  these  crea- 
tures, and  once  or  twice  I  heard  of  him  being 
under  arrest  for  resenting  what  he  deemed  an 
impertinence  from  them. 

Once  he  came  very  near  being  drowned. 
There  was  a  flood  in  the  river,  and  a  large  crowd 
was  watching  it  from  the  bridge.  Suddenly  a 
little  girl's  dog  fell  in.  It  was  pushed  in  by  a 
ruffian.  The  child  cried  out,  and  there  was  a 
commotion.  When  it  subsided  a  man  was  seen 
swimming  for  life  after  the  little  white  head  go- 
102 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  " 'No.  4 


ing  down  the  stream.  It  was  ' '  No.  4. "  He  had 
slapped  the  fellow  in  the  face,  and  then  had 
sprung  in  after  the  dog.  He  caught  it,  and  got 
out  himself,  though  in  too  exhausted  a  state  to 
stand  up.  When  he  was  praised  for  it,  he  said, 
"A  member  of  old  Joe's  company  who  would 
not  have  done  that  could  not  have  ridden  be- 
hind old  Joe."  I  had  this  story  from  eye-wit- 
nesses, and  it  was  used  shortly  after  with  good 
effect  \  for  he  was  arrested  for  burglary,  break- 
ing into  a  man's  house  one  night.  It  looked  at 
first  like  a  serious  case,  for  some  money  had 
been  taken  out  of  a  drawer ;  but  when  the  case 
was  investigated  it  turned  out  that  the  house 
was  a  bar-room  over  which  the  man  lived, — he 
was  the  same  man  who  had  pitched  the  dog 
into  the  water, — and  that  "  No.  4,"  after  being 
given  whiskey  enough  to  make  him  a  madman, 
had  been  put  out  of  the  place,  had  broken  into 
the  bar  during  the  night  to  get  more,  and  was 
found  fast  asleep  in  a  chair  with  an  empty  bot- 
tle beside  him.  I  think  the  jury  became  satis- 
fied that  if  any  money  had  been  taken  the  bar-, 
keeper,  to  make  out  a  case  against  "No.  4," 
had  taken  it  himself.  But  there  was  a  technical 
breaking,  and  it  had  to  be  got  around ;  so  his 
counsel  appealed  to  the  jury,  telling  them  what 
he  knew  of  "No.  4,"  together  with  the  story 
103 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "No.  4" 

of  the  child's  dog,  and  "  No.  4*5"  reply. 
There  were  one  or  two  old  soldiers  on  the  jury, 
and  they  acquitted  him,  on  which  he  somehow 
managed  to  get  whiskey  enough  to  land  him 
back  in  jail  in  twenty-four  hours. 

In  May,  1890,  there  was  a  monument  un- 
veiled in  Richmond.  It  was  a  great  occasion, 
and  not  only  all  Virginia,  but  the  whole  South, 
participated  in  it  with  great  fervor,  much  en- 
thusiasm, and  many  tears.  It  was  an  occasion 
for  sacred  memories.  The  newspapers  talked 
about  it  for  a  good  while  beforehand  ;  prepa- 
rations were  made  for  it  as  for  the  celebration 
of  a  great  and  general  ceremony  in  which  the 
whole  South  was  interested.  It  was  interested, 
because  it  was  not  only  the  unveiling  of  a  monu- 
ment for  the  old  commander,  the  greatest  and 
loftiest  Southerner,  and,  as  the  South  holds, 
man,  of  his  time ;  it  was  an  occasion  conse- 
crated to  the  whole  South  ;  it  was  the  embalm- 
ing in  precious  memories,  and  laying  away  in 
the  tomb  of  the  Southern  Confederacy  :  the 
apotheosis  of  the  Southern  people.  As  such 
all  were  interested  in  it,  and  all  prepared  for 
it.  It  was  known  that  all  that  remained  of  the 
Southern  armies  would  be  there  :  of  the  armies 
that  fought  at  Shiloh,  and  Bull  Run,  and  Fort 
104 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "No.  4" 


Republic  ;  at  Seven  Pines,  Gaines's  Mill,  and 
Cold  Harbor ;  at  Antietam,  Fredericksburg, 
Chancellorsville,  and  Gettysburg ;  at  Frank- 
lin, Atlanta,  Murfreesboro,  and  Chickamatiga, 
Spottsylvania,  the  Wilderness,  and  Petersburg  ; 
and  the  whole  South,  Union  as  it  is  now  and 
ready  to  fight  the  nation's  battles,  gathered  to 
glorify  Lee,  the  old  commander,  and  to  see  and 
glorify  the  survivors  of  those  and  other  bloody 
fields  in  which  the  volunteer  soldiers  of  the 
South  had  held  the  world  at  bay,  and  added 
to  the  glorious  history  of  their  race.  Men  came 
all  the  way  from  Oregon  and  California  to  be 
present.  Old  one-legged  soldiers  stumped  it 
from  West  Virginia.  Even  "No.  4,"  though 
in  the  gutter,  caught  the  contagion,  and  shaped 
up  and  became  sober.  He  got  a  good  suit  of 
clothes  somewhere — not  new — and  appeared 
quite  respectable.  Pie  even  got  something  to 
do,  and,  in  token  of  what  he  had  been,  was  put 
on  one  of  the  many  committees  having  a  hand 
in  the  entertainment  arrangements.  I  never 
saw  a  greater  change  in  anyone.  It  looked  as 
if  there  was  hope  for  him  yet.  He  stopped  me 
on  the  street  a  day  or  t\vo  before  the  unveiling 
and  told  me  he  had  a  piece  of  good  news :  the 
remnant  of  his  old  company  was  to  be  here  ; 
he  had  got  hold  of  the  last  one, — there  were 
10; 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "  No.  4" 

nine  of  them  left, — and  he  had  his  old  jacket 
that  he  had  worn  in  the  war,  and  he  was  going 
to  wear  it  on  the  march.  "It's  worn,  of 
course,"  he  said,  "  but  my  mother  put  some 
patches  over  the  holes,  and  except  for  the  stain 
on  it  it's  in  good  order.  I  believe  I  am  the 
only  one  of  the  boys  that  has  his  jacket  still ; 
my  mother  kept  this  for  me  ;  I  have  never  got 
so  hard  up  as  to  part  with  it.  I'm  all  right 
now.  I  mean  to  be  buried  in  it." 

I  had  never  remarked  before  what  a  refined 
face  he  had ;  his  enthusiasm  made  him  look 
younger  than  I  had  ever  seen  him. 

I  saw  him  on  the  day  before  the  eve  of  the 
unveiling  ;  he  was  as  busy  as  a  bee,  and  looked 
almost  handsome.  "The  boys  are  coming  in 
by  every  train,"  he  said.  "  Look  here."  He 
pulled  me  aside,  and  unbuttoned  his  vest.  A 
piece  of  faded  gray  cloth  was  disclosed.  He 
had  the  old  gray  jacket  on  under  his  other  coat. 
"  I  know  the  boys  will  like  to  see  it,"  he  said. 
"I'm  going  down  to  the  train  now  to  meet 
one — Binford  Terrell.  I  don't  know  whether 
I  shall  know  him.  Binford  and  I  used  to  be 
much  of  a  size.  We  did  not  use  to  speak  at 
one  time ;  had  a  falling  out  about  which  one 
should  hold  the  horses ;  I  made  him  do  it,  but 
I  reckon  he  won't  remember  it  now.  I  don't. 
1 06 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "No.  4" 

I  have  not  touched  a  drop.      Good-by."     He 
went  off. 

The  next  night  about  bedtime  I  got  a  mes- 
sage that  a  man  wanted  to  see  me  at  the  jail 
immediately.  It  was  urgent.  Would  I  come 
down  there  at  once  ?  I  had  a  foreboding,  and 
I  went  down.  It  was  as  I  suspected.  "  No.  4  " 
was  there  behind  the  bars.  "  Drunk  again," 
said  the  turnkey,  laconically,  as  he  let  me  in. 
He  let  me  see  him.  He  wanted  me  to  see  the 
judge  and  get  him  out.  He  besought  me.  He 
wept.  "It  was  all  an  accident;"  he  had 
' '  found  some  of  the  old  boys,  and  they  had  got 
to  talking  over  old  times,  and  just  for  old  times' 
sake,"  etc.  He  was  too  drunk  to  stand  up; 
but  the  terror  of  being  locked  up  next  day  had 
sobered  him,  and  his  mind  was  perfectly  clear. 
He  implored  me  to  see  the  judge  and  to  get  him 
to  let  him  out.  "  Tell  him  I  will  come  back 
here  and  stay  a  year  if  he  will  let  me  out  to- 
morrow," he  said  brokenly.  He  showed  me 
the  gray  jacket  under  his  vest,  and  was  speechless. 
Even  then  he  did  not  ask  release  on  the  ground 
that  he  was  a  veteran.  I  never  knew  him  to 
urge  this  reason.  Even  the  officials  who  must 
have  seen  him  there  fifty  times  were  sympathetic  ; 
and  they  told  me  to  see  the  justice,  and  they 
believed  he  would  let  him  out  for  next  day.  I 

107 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "No.  4" 


applied  to  him  as  they  suggested.  He  said, 
"  Come  down  to  court  to-morrow  morning." 
I  did  so.  "  No.  4  "  was  present,  pale  and 
trembling.  As  he  stood  there  he  made  a  better 
defence  than  any  one  else  could  have  made  for 
him.  He  admitted  his  guilt,  and  said  he  had 
nothing  to  say  in  extenuation  except  that  it  was 
the  "  old  story,"  he  "  had  not  intended  it ;  he 
deserved  it  all,  but  would  like  to  get  off  that 
day ;  had  a  special  reason  for  it,  and  would,  if 
necessary,  go  back  to  jail  that  evening  and  stay 
there  a  year,  or  all  his  life.' '  As  he  stood  await- 
ing sentence,  he  looked  like  a  damned  soul. 
His  coat  was  unbuttoned,  and  his  old,  faded 
gray  jacket  showed  under  it.  The  justice,  to 
his  honor,  let  him  off :  let  all  offenders  off  that 
day.  "  No.  4  "  shook  hands  with  him,  unable 
to  speak,  and  turned  away.  Then  he  had  a 
strange  turn.  We  had  hard  work  to  get  him 
to  go  into  the  procession.  He  positively  re- 
fused ;  said  he  was  not  fit  to  go,  or  to  live  ; 
began  to  cry,  and  took  off  his  jacket.  He 
would  go  back  to  jail,  he  said.  We  finally 
got  him  straight ;  accepted  from  him  a  solemn 
promise  not  to  touch  a  drop  till  the  celebration 
was  over,  so  help  him  God,  and  sent  him  off  to 
join  his  old  command  at  the  tobacco -warehouse 
on  the  slip  where  the  cavalry  rendezvoused.  I 
1 08 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "  No.  4 


had  some  apprehension  that  he  would  not  turn 
up  in  the  procession  ;  but  I  was  mistaken.  He 
was  there  with  the  old  cavalry  veterans,  as  sober 
as  a  judge,  and  looking  every  inch  a  soldier. 

It  was  a  strange  scene,  and  an  impressive  one 
even  to  those  whose  hearts  were  not  in  sympathy 
with  it  in  any  respect.  Many  who  had  been 
the  hardest  fighters  against  the  South  were  in 
sympathy  with  much  of  it,  if  not  with  all.  But 
to  those  who  were  of  the  South,  it  was  sub- 
lime. It  passed  beyond  mere  enthusiasm,  how- 
ever exalted,  and  rested  in  the  profoundest 
and  most  sacred  deeps  of  their  being.  There 
were  many  cheers,  but  more  tears ;  not  tears 
of  regret  or  mortification,  but  tears  of  sym- 
pathy and  hallowed  memory.  The  gayly  dec- 
orated streets,  in  all  the  bravery  of  fluttering 
ensigns  and  bunting ;  the  martial  music  of  many 
bands  ;  the  constant  tramp  of  marching  troops  ; 
the  thronged  sidewalks,  verandas,  and  roofs ; 
the  gleam  of  polished  arms  and  glittering  uni- 
forms ;  the  flutter  of  gay  garments,  and  the  smiles 
of  beautiful  women  sweet  with  sympathy ;  the 
long  line  of  old  soldiers,  faded  and  broken  and 
gray,  yet  each  self-sustained,  and  inspired  by  the 
life  of  the  South  that  flowed  in  their  veins,  march- 
ing under  the  old  Confederate  battle-flags  that 
they  had  borne  so  often  in  victory  and  in  defeat 
109 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "No.  4" 

— all  contributed  to  make  the  outward  pageant 
a  scene  never  to  be  forgotten.  But  this  was 
merely  the  outward  image  ;  the  real  fact  was 
the  spirit.  It  was  the  South.  It  was  the  spirit 
of  the  South  ;  not  of  the  new  South,  nor  yet 
merely  of  the  old  South,  but  the  spirit  of  the 
great  South.  When  the  young  troops  from 
every  Southern  State  marched  by  in  their  fresh 
uniforms,  with  well-drilled  battalions,  there  were 
huzzas,  much  applause  and  enthusiasm ;  when 
the  old  soldiers  came  there  was  a  tempest :  wild 
cheers  choking  with  sobs  and  tears,  the  well- 
known,  once-heard-never-forgotten  cry  of  the 
battling  South,  known  in  history  as  "  the  rebel 
yell."  Men  and  women  and  children  joined 
in  it.  It  began  at  the  first  sight  of  the  regular 
column,  swelled  up  the  crowded  streets,  rose  to 
the  thronged  housetops,  ran  along  them  for 
squares  like  a  conflagration,  and  then  came  roll- 
ing back  in  volume  only  to  rise  and  swell  again 
greater  than  before.  Men  wept ;  children 
shrilled ;  women  sobbed  aloud.  What  was 
it  !  Only  a  thousand  or  two  of  old  or  aging 
men  riding  or  tramping  along  through  the 
dust  of  the  street,  under  some  old  flags,  dirty 
and  ragged  and  stained.  But  they  represented 
the  spirit  of  the  South ;  they  represented  the 
spirit  which  when  honor  was  in  question  never 

I  10 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "No.  4" 

counted  the  cost ;  the  spirit  that  had  stood  up 
for  the  South  against  overwhelming  odds  for 
four  years,  and  until  the  South  had  crumbled 
and  perished  under  the  forces  of  war  ;  the  spiri  t 
that  is  the  strongest  guaranty  to  us  to-day  that 
the  Union  is  and  is  to  be ;  the  spirit  that,  glo- 
rious in  victory,  had  displayed  a  fortitude  yet 
greater  in  defeat.  They  saw  in  every  stain 
on  those  tattered  standards  the  blood  of  their 
noblest,  bravest,  and  best ;  in  every  rent  a  proof 
of  their  glorious  courage  and  sacrifice.  They 
saw  in  those  gray  and  careworn  faces,  in  those 
old  clothes  interspersed  now  and  then  with  a 
faded  gray  uniform,  the  men  who  in  the  ardor 
of  their  youth  had,  for  the  South,  faced  death 
undaunted  on  a  hundred  fields,  and  had  never 
even  thought  it  great ;  men  who  had  looked  im- 
mortality in  the  eyes,  yet  had  been  thrown  down 
and  trampled  underfoot,  and  who  were  greater 
in  their  overthrow  than  when  glory  poured  her 
light  upon  their  upturned  faces.  Not  one  of 
them  all  but  was  self-sustaining,  sustained  by  the 
South,  or  had  ever  even  for  one  moment  thought 
in  his  direst  extremity  that  he  would  have  what 
was,  undone. 

The  crowd  was  immense ;  the  people  on  the 
fashionable  street  up  which  the  procession  passed 
were  fortunate  ;  they  had  the  advantage  of  their 
in 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "  No.  4" 

yards  and  porticos,  and  they  threw  them  open 
to  the  public.  Still  the  throng  on  the  side- 
walks was  tremendous,  and  just  before  the  old 
veterans  came  along  the  crush  increased.  As  it 
resettled  itself  I  became  conscious  that  a  little 
old  woman  in  a  rusty  black  dress  whom  I  had 
seen  patiently  standing  alone  in  the  front  line  on 
the  street  corner  for  an  hour  had  lost  her  posi- 
tion, and  had  been  pushed  back  against  the 
railing,  and  had  an  anxious,  disappointed  look 
on  her  face.  She  had  a  little,  faded  knot  of 
Confederate  colors  fastened  in  her  old  dress,  and, 
almost  hidden  by  the  crowd,  she  was  looking 
up  and  down  in  some  distress  to  see  if  she  could 
not  again  get  a  place  from  which  she  could  see. 
Finally  she  seemed  to  give  it  up,  and  stood  quite 
still,  tiptoeing  now  and  then  to  try  to  catch  a 
glimpse.  I  saw  someone  about  to  help  her  when, 
from  a  gay  and  crowded  portico  above  her,  a 
young  and  beautiful  girl  in  a  white  dress,  whom 
I  had  been  observing  for  some  time  as  the  life 
of  a  gay  party,  as  she  sat  in  her  loveliness,  a 
queen  on  her  throne  with  her  courtiers  around 
her,  suddenly  arose  and  ran  down  into  the  street. 
There  was  a  short  colloquy.  The  young  beauty 
was  offering  something  which  the  old  lady  was 
declining;  but  it  ended  in  the  young  girl  leading 
the  older  woman  gently  up  on  to  her  veranda 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "No.  4" 


and  giving  her  the  chair  of  state.  She  was 
hardly  seated  when  the  old  soldiers  began  to 
pass. 

As  the  last  mounted  veterans  came  by,  I  re- 
membered that  I  had  not  seen  "  No.  4;  "  but 
as  I  looked  up,  he  was  just  coming  along.  In 
his  hand,  with  staff  resting  on  his  toe,  he  carried 
an  old  standard  so  torn  and  tattered  and  stained 
that  it  was  scarcely  recognizable  as  a  flag.  I  did 
not  for  a  moment  take  in  that  it  was  he,  for  he 
was  not  in  the  gray  jacket  which  I  had  expect- 
ed to  see.  He  was  busy  looking  down  at  the 
throng  on  the  sidewalk,  apparently  searching  for 
some  one  whom  he  expected  to  find  there.  He 
was  in  some  perplexity,  and  pulled  in  his  horse, 
which  began  to  rear.  Suddenly  the  applause 
from  the  portico  above  arrested  his  attention, 
and  he  looked  toward  it  and  bowed.  As  he  did 
so  his  eye  caught  that  of  the  old  lady  seated 
there.  His  face  lighted  up,  and,  wheeling  his 
prancing  horse  half  around,  he  dipped  the 
tattered  standard,  and  gave  the  royal  salute  as 
though  saluting  a  queen.  The  old  lady  pressed 
her  wrinkled  hand  over  the  knot  of  faded  ribbon 
on  her  breast,  and  made  a  gesture  to  him,  and  he 
rode  on.  He  had  suddenly  grown  handsome. 
I  looked  at  her  again  ;  her  eyes  were  closed,  her 
hands  were  clasped,  and  her  lips  were  moving. 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "No.  4" 


I  saw  the  likeness  :  she  was  his  mother.  As  he 
passed  me  I  caught  his  eye.  He  saw  my  per- 
plexity about  the  jacket,  glanced  up  at  the  torn 
colors,  and  pointed  to  a  figure  just  beyond  him 
dressed  in  a  short,  faded  jacket.  "  No.  4  "  had 
been  selected,  as  the  highest  honor,  to  carry  the 
old  colors  which  he  had  once  saved ;  and  not 
to  bear  off  all  the  honors  from  his  friend,  he 
had  with  true  comradeship  made  Binford  Terrell 
wear  his  cherished  jacket.  He  made  a  brave 
figure  as  he  rode  away,  and  my  cheer  died  on 
my  lips  as  I  thought  of  the  sad,  old  mother  in  her 
faded  knot,  and  of  the  dashing  young  soldier 
who  had  saved  the  colors  in  that  unnamed  fight. 
After  that  we  got  him  a  place,  and  he  did 
well  for  several  months.  He  seemed  to  be 
cured.  New  life  and  strength  appeared  to  come 
back  to  him.  But  his  mother  died,  and  one 
night  shortly  afterward  he  disappeared,  and  re- 
mained lost  for  several  days.  When  we  found 
him  he  had  been  brought  to  jail,  and  I  was  sent 
for  to  see  about  him.  He  was  worse  than  I 
had  ever  known  him.  He  was  half-naked  and 
little  better  than  a  madman.  I  went  to  a  doc- 
tor about  him,  an  old  army  surgeon,  who  saw 
him,  and  shook  his  head.  "Mania  a  potu. 
Very  bad  ;  only  a  question  of  time,"  he  said. 
This  was  true.  "  No.  4"  was  beyond  hope. 
114 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "  No.  4" 

Body  and  brain  were  both  gone.  It  got  to  be 
only  a  question  of  days,  if  not  of  hours.  Some 
of  his  other  friends  and  I  determined  that  he 
should  not  die  in  jail ;  so  we  took  him  out  and 
carried  him  to  a  cool,  pleasant  room  looking 
out  on  an  old  garden  with  trees  in  it.  There 
in  the  dreadful  terror  of  raving  delirium  he 
passed  that  night.  I  with  several  others  sat  up 
with  him.  I  could  not  have  stood  many  more 
like  it.  All  night  long  he  raved  and  tore.  His 
oaths  were  blood-curdling.  He  covered  every 
past  portion  of  his  life.  His  army  life  was 
mainly  in  his  mind.  He  fought  the  whole  war 
over.  Sometimes  he  prayed  fervently  ;  prayed 
against  his  infirmity;  prayed  that  his  chains 
might  be  broken.  Then  he  would  grow  calm 
for  awhile.  One  thing  recurred  constantly  : 
he  had  sold  his  honor,  betrayed  his  cause.  This 
was  the  order  again  and  again,  and  each  time 
the  paroxysm  of  frightful  fury  came  on,  and  it 
took  all  of  us  to  hold  him.  He  was  covered 
with  snakes  :  they  were  chains  on  his  wrists  and 
around  his  body.  He  tried  to  pull  them  from 
around  him.  At  last,  toward  morning,  came 
one  of  those  fearful  spells,  worse  than  any  that 
had  gone  before.  It  passed,  and  he  suddenly 
seemed  to  collapse.  He  sank,  and  the  stimu- 
lant administered  failed  to  revive  him. 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "No.  4 


<•  He  is  going,"  said  the  doctor,  quietly, 
across  the  bed.  Whether  his  dull  ear  caught 
the  word  or  not,  I  cannot  say  ;  but  he  suddenly 
roused  up,  tossed  one  arm,  and  said  : 

"  Binford,  take  the  horses.  I'm  going  to 
old  Joe, ' '  and  sank  back. 

"He's  gone,"  said  the  doctor,  opening  his 
shirt  and  placing  his  ear  over  his  heart.  As 
he  rose  up  I  saw  two  curious  scars  on  "  No. 
4's  "  emaciated  breast.  They  looked  almost 
like  small  crosses,  about  the  size  of  the  decora- 
tions the  European  veterans  wear.  The  old 
doctor  bent  over  and  examined  them. 

"  Hello  !  Bayonet-wounds,"  he  said  briefly. 

A  little  later  I  went  out  to  get  a  breath  of 
fresh  morning  air  to  quiet  my  nerves,  which 
were  somewhat  unstrung.  As  I  passed  by  a 
little  second-hand  clothing-store  of  the  meanest 
kind,  in  a  poor,  back  street,  I  saw  hanging  up 
outside  an  old  gray  jacket.  I  stopped  to  ex- 
amine it.  It  was  stained  behind  with  mud, 
and  in  front  with  a  darker  color.  An  old 
patch  hid  a  part  of  the  front ;  but  a  close 
examination  showed  two  holes  over  the  breast. 
It  was  "No.  4's"  lost  jacket.  I  asked  the 
shopman  about  it.  He  had  bought  it,  he  said, 
of  a  pawnbroker  who  had  got  it  from  some 
drunkard,  who  had  probably  stolen  it  last  year 
116 


The  Gray  Jacket  of  "No.  4" 

from  some  old  soldier.  He  readily  sold  it,  and 
I  took  it  back  with  me ;  and  the  others  being- 
gone,  an  old  woman  and  I  cut  the  patch  off  it 
and  put  "No.  4*5"  stiffening  arms  into  the 
sleeves.  Word  was  sent  to  us  during  the  day 
to  say  that  the  city  would  bury  him  in  the  poor- 
house  grounds.  But  we  told  them  that  ar- 
rangements had  been  made ;  that  he  would 
have  a  soldier's  burial.  And  he  had  it. 


117 


Miss  Danger-lie's  Roses 


MISS  DANGERLIE'S  ROSES 

HENRY  FLOYD  was  a  crank,  at  least  so 
many  people  said ;  a  few  thought  he  was 
a  wonderful  person  :  these  were  mostly  children, 
old  women,  and  people  not  in  the  directory, 
and  persons  not  in  the  directory  do  not  count 
for  much.  He  was  in  fact  a  singular  fellow. 
It  was  all  natural  enough  to  him  ;  he  was  just 
like  what  he  believed  his  father  had  been,  his 
father  of  whom  his  mother  used  to  tell  him, 
and  whom  he  remembered  so  vaguely  except 
when  he  had  suddenly  loomed  up  in  his  uniform 
at  the  head  of  his  company,  when  they  went 
away  on  that  march  from  which  he  had  never 
returned.  He  meant  to  be  like  him,  if  he  was 
not,  and  he  remembered  all  that  his  mother  had 
told  him  of  his  gentleness,  his  high  courtesy, 
his  faithfulness,  his  devotion  to  duty,  his  un- 
selfishness. So  it  was  all  natural  enough  to 
Floyd  to  be  as  he  was.  But  a  man  can  no 
more  tell  whether  or  not  he  is  a  crank  than  he 
can  tell  how  old  he  looks.  He  was,  however, 
121 


Miss  Dangerlie's  Roses 


without  doubt,  different  in  certain  ways  from 
most  people.  This  his  friends  admitted.  Some 
said  he  was  old-fashioned  ;  some  that  he  was 
"  old-timey ;"  some  that  he  was  unpractical, 
the  shades  of  criticism  ranging  up  to  those 
saying  he  was  a  fool.  This  did  not  mean 
intellectually,  for  none  denied  his  intellect. 
He  drove  a  virile  pen,  and  had  an  epigram- 
matic tongue.  He  had  had  a  hard  time.  He 
had  borne  the  yoke  in  his  youth.  This,  we 
have  strong  authority  for  saying,  is  good  for 
a  man  ;  but  it  leaves  its  mark  upon  him.  He 
had  been  desperately  poor.  He  had  not  mind- 
ed that  except  for  his  mother,  and  he  had  ap- 
proved of  her  giving  up  every  cent  to  meet  the 
old  security  debts.  It  had  cut  him  off  from 
his  college  education ;  but  he  had  worked  till 
he  was  a  better  scholar  than  he  might  have  been 
had  he  gone  to  college.  He  had  kept  his 
mother  comfortable  as  long  as  she  lived,  and 
then  had  put  up  a  monument  over  her  in  the  old 
churchyard,  as  he  had  done  before  to  his  father's 
memory.  This,  everyone  said,  was  foolish, 
and  perhaps  it  was,  for  it  took  him  at  least  two 
years  to  pay  for  them,  and  he  might  have  laid 
up  the  money  and  got  a  start,  or,  as  some  char- 
itable persons  said,  it  might  have  been  given 
to  the  poor.  However,  the  monuments  were 
122 


Miss  Danger  lie's  Roses 


put  up,  and  on  them  were  epitaphs  which  re- 
corded at  length  the  virtues  of  those  to  whom 
they  were  erected,  with  their  descent,  and  de- 
clared that  they  were  Christians  and  Gentle- 
people.  Some  one  said  to  Floyd  that  he 
might  have  shortened  the  epitaphs,  and  have 
saved  something.  "  I  did  not  want  them  short- 
ened," said  he. 

He  had  borne  the  yoke  otherwise  also.  One 
of  the  first  things  he  had  done  after  "star  ting  in 
life  was  to  fall  in  love  with  a  beautiful  woman. 
She  was  very  beautiful  and  a  great  belle.  Ev- 
ery one  said  it  was  sheer  nonsense  for  Henry 
Floyd  to  expect  her  to  marry  him,  as  poor 
as  he  was,  which  was  natural  enough.  The 
only  thing  was  that  she  led  Floyd  to  believe  she 
was  going  to  marry  him  when  she  did  not  in- 
tend to  do  it,  and  it  cost  him  a  great  deal  of 
unhappiness.  He  never  said  one  word  against 
her,  not  even  when  she  married  a  man  much 
older  than  himself,  simply,  as  everyone  said, 
because  he  was  very  rich.  If  Floyd  ever  thought 
that  she  treated  him  badly,  no  one  ever  knew 
it,  and  when  finally  she  left  her  husband,  no 
one  ever  ventured  to  discuss  it  before  Floyd. 

Henry  Floyd,  however,  had  suffered, — that 
everyone  could  see  who  had  eyes  ;  but  only  he 
knew  how  much.  Generally  grave  and  dreamy; 
123 


Miss  Dangerlies  Roses 


when  quiet  as  calm  as  a  dove,  as  fierce  as  a 
hawk  when  aroused  ;  moving  always  in  an  ec- 
centric orbit,  which  few  understood  ;  flashing 
out  now  and  then  gleams  which  some  said  were 
sparks  of  genius  but  which  most  people  said  were 
mere  eccentricity,  he  had  sunk  into  a  recluse. 
He  was  in  this  state  when  he  met  HER.  He 
always  afterward  referred  to  her  so.  He  was  at 
a  reception  when  he  came  upon  her  on  a  stair- 
way. A  casual  word  about  his  life,  a  smile 
flashed  from  her  large,  dark,  luminous  eyes, 
lighting  up  her  face,  and  Henry  Floyd  awoke. 
She  had  called  him  from  the  dead.  It  was  a 
case  of  love  at  first  sight.  From  that  time  he 
never  had  a  thought  for  anyone  else,  least  of  all 
for  himself.  He  lived  in  her  and  for  her.  He 
blossomed  under  her  sympathy  as  a  tree  comes 
out  under  the  sunshine  and  soft  breath  of  spring. 
He  grew,  he  broadened.  She  was  his  sun, 
his  breath  of  life  ;  he  worshipped  her.  Then 
one  day  she  died — suddenly — sank  down  and 
died  as  a  butterfly  might  die,  chilled  by  a  blast. 
With  her  Henry  Floyd  buried  his  youth.  For 
a  time  people  were  sympathetic  ;  but  they  be- 
gan immediately  to  speculate  about  him,  then 
to  gossip  about  him.  It  made  no  difference  to 
him  or  in  him.  He  was  like  a  man  that  is 
dead,  who  felt  no  more.  One  thing  about  a 
124 


Miss  Dangerlies  Roses 


great  sorrow  is  that  it  destroys  all  lesser  ones. 
A  man  with  a  crushed  body  does  not  feel  pin- 
pricks. Henry  Floyd  went  on  his  way  calmly, 
doggedly,  mechanically.  He  drifted  on  and 
was  talked  about  continually.  Gossip  would 
not  let  him  alone,  so  she  did  him  the  honor  to 
connect  his  name  with  that  of  every  woman  he 
met.  In  fact,  there  was  as  much  reason  to 
mention  all  as  one.  He  was  fond  of  women, 
and  enjoyed  them.  Women  liked  him  too. 
There  was  a  certain  gentleness  mingled  with 
firmness,  a  kind  of  protecting  air  about  him 
which  women  admired,  and  a  mystery  of  im- 
penetrable sadness  which  women  liked.  Every 
woman  who  knew  him  trusted  him,  and  had  a 
right  to  trust  him.  To  none  was  he  indifferent, 
but  in  none  was  he  interested.  He  was  simply 
cut  off.  A  physician  who  saw  him  said,  "  That 
man  is  dying  of  loneliness."  This  went  on  for 
some  years.  At  last  his  friends  determined  to 
get  him  back  into  society.  They  made  plans 
for  him  and  carried  them  out  to  a  certain 
length  ;  there  the  plans  failed.  Floyd  might  be 
led  up  to  the  water,  but  none  could  make  him 
drink;  there  he  took  the  bit  in  his  teeth  and 
went  his  own  way.  He  would  be  invited  to 
meet  a  girl  at  a  dinner  got  up  for  his  benefit, 
that  he  might  meet  her,  and  would  spend  the 
125 


Miss  Danger  lie's  Roses 


evening  hanging  over  a  little  unheard-of  coun- 
try cousin  with  a  low  voice  and  soft  eyes,  enter- 
taining her  with  stories  of  his  country  days  or 
of  his  wanderings ;  or  he  would  be  put  by  some 
belle,  and  after  five  minutes'  homage  spend  the 
time  talking  to  some  old  lady  about  her  grand- 
children. "You  must  marry,"  they  said  to 
him.  "When  one  rises  from  the  dead,"  he 
replied.  At  length,  his  friends  grew  tired  of 
helping  him  and  gave  him  up,  and  he  dropped 
out  and  settled  down.  Commiseration  is  one 
of  the  bitter  things  of  life.  But  Floyd  had 
what  is  harder  to  bear  than  that.  It  did  not 
affect  his  work.  It  was  only  his  health  and  his 
life  that  suffered.  He  was  like  a  man  who  has 
lost  the  senses  of  touch  and  taste  and  sight.  If 
he  minded  it,  he  did  not  show  it.  One  can  get 
used  to  being  bedridden. 

One  thing  about  him  was  that  he  always  ap- 
peared poor.  He  began  to  be  known  as  an 
inventor  and  writer.  It  was  known  that  he 
received  high  prices  for  what  he  did ;  but  he 
appeared  to  be  no  better  off  than  when  he  made 
nothing.  Some  persons  supposed  that  he  gam- 
bled ;  others  whispered  that  he  spent  it  in  other 
dissipation.  In  fact,  one  lady  gave  a  circum- 
stantial account  of  the  way  he  squandered  his 
money,  and  declared  herself  very  glad  that  he 
126 


Miss  Danger  lie's  Roses 


had  never  visited  her  daughters.  When  this 
was  repeated  to  Floyd,  he  said  he  fortunately 
did  not  have  to  account  to  her  for  the  way  he 
spent  his  money.  He  felt  that  the  woman  out 
under  the  marble  cross  knew  how  his  money 
went,  and  so  did  the  little  cousin  who  was 
named  after  her,  and  who  was  at  school.  He 
had  a  letter  from  her  in  his  pocket  at  that  mo- 
ment. So  he  drifted  on. 

At  length  one  evening  he  was  at  a  reception 
in  a  strange  city  whither  his  business  had  taken 
him.  The  rooms  were  filled  with  light  and 
beauty.  Floyd  was  standing  chatting  with  a 
child  of  ten  years,  whom  he  found  standing  in 
a  corner,  gazing  out  with  wide  questioning 
eyes  on  the  throng.  They  were  friends  in- 
stantly, and  he  was  telling  her  who  the  guests 
were,  as  they  came  sailing  in,  giving  them  fic- 
titious names  and  titles.  "They  are  all  queens," 
he  told  her,  at  which  she  laughed.  She 
pointed  out  a  tall  and  stately  woman  with  a  sol- 
emn face,  and  with  a  gleaming  bodice  on  like 
a  cuirass,  and  her  hair  up  on  her  head  like  a 
casque.  "  Who  is  that  ?" 

"  Queen  Semiramis." 

"And  who  is  that?"  It  was  a  stout  lady 
with  a  tiara  of  diamonds,  a  red  face,  and  three 
feathers. 


127 


Miss  Danger  lie's  Roses 


" 


Queen  Victoria,  of  course." 
And  who  am  I  ?  "      She  placed  her  little 
hand  on  her  breast  with  a  pretty  gesture. 

"The  Queen  of  Hearts,"  said  Floyd,  quickly, 
at  which  she  laughed  outright.  "  Oh  !  I  must 
not  laugh,"  she  said,  checking  herself  and  glanc- 
ing around  her  with  a  shocked  look.  '  '  I  forgot.  '  ' 

"  You  shall.  If  you  don't,  you  sha'n't  know 
who  another  queen  is." 

"  No,  mamma  told  me  I  must  not  make  a  bit 
of  noise  ;  it  is  not  style,  you  know,  but  you 
mustn't  be  so  funny." 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  said  Floyd. 

"  Oh  !  who  is  this  coming  ?  "  A  lady  richly 
dressed  was  making  her  way  toward  them. 
"  The  Queen  of  Sheba  —  coming  to  see  Solo- 
mon," said  Floyd,  as  she  came  up  to  him. 
"Let  me  introduce  you  to  a  beautiful  girl, 
Sarah  Dangerlie,"  she  said,  and  drew  him 
through  the  throng  toward  a  door,  where  he 
was  presented  to  a  tall  and  strikingly  handsome 
girl  and  made  his  bow  and  a  civil  speech,  to 
which  the  young  lady  responded  with  one 
equally  polite  and  important.  Other  men  were 
pressing  around  her,  to  all  of  whom  she  made 
apt  and  cordial  speeches,  and  Floyd  fell  back 
and  rejoined  his  little  girl,  whose  face  lit  up  at 
his  return. 

128 


Miss  Dangerlie's  Roses 


"  Oh  !  I  was  so  afraid  you  were  going  away 
with  her. ' ' 

"  And  leave  you?  Never,  I'm  not  so  easily 
disposed  of." 

"  Everyone  goes  with  her.  They  call  her 
the  Queen." 

"Do  they?" 

"Do  you  like  her?" 

"Yes." 

"You  don't,"  she  said,  looking  at  him 
keenly. 

"  Yes,  she  is  beautiful." 

"  Everyone  says  so." 

"She  isn't  as  beautiful  as  someone  else  I 
know,"  said  Floyd,  pleasantly. 

"Isn't  she?     As  whom  ?" 

Floyd  took  hold  of  the  child's  hand  and  said, 
"  Let's  go  and  get  some  supper." 

"  I  don't  like  her,"  said  the  little  girl,  posi- 
tively. 

"Don't  you?"  said  Floyd.  He  stopped 
and  glanced  across  the  room  toward  where  the 
girl  had  stood.  He  saw  only  the  gleam  of  her 
fine  shoulders  as  she  disappeared  in  the  crowd 
surrounded  by  her  admirers. 

A  little  later  Floyd  met  the  young  lady  on 
the  stairway.     He  had  not  recognized  her,  and 
was  passing  on,  when  she  spoke  to  him. 
129 


Miss  Danger  lie's  Roses 


"  I  saw  you  talking  to  a  little  friend  of  mine," 
she  began,  then — "Over  in  the  corner,"  she 
explained. 

"Oh!  yes.  She  is  sweet.  They  interest 
me.  I  always  feel  when  I  have  talked  with  a 
child  as  if  I  had  got  as  near  to  the  angels  as  one 
can  get  on  earth." 

"  Do  you  know  I  was  very  anxious  to  meet 
you,"  she  said. 

"  Were  you  ?     Thank  you.     Why  ?  " 

"  Because  of  a  line  of  yours  I  once  read." 

"  I  am  pleased  to  have  written  only  one  line 
that  attracted  your  attention,"  said  Floyd,  bow- 
ing. 

"  No,  no — it  was  this — 

' '  The  whitest  soul  of  man  or  saint  is  black  beside  a 
girl's." 

"  Beside  a  child's,"  said  Floyd,  correcting 
her. 

"  Oh  !  yes,  so  it  is — '  beside  a  child's.'  " 

Her  voice  was  low  and  musical.  Floyd 
glanced  up  and  caught  her  look,  and  the  color 
deepened  in  her  cheek  as  the  young  man  sud- 
denly leant  a  little  towards  her  and  gazed  ear- 
nestly into  her  eyes,  which  she  dropped,  but 
instantly  raised  again. 

«  Yes — good-night,"  she  held  out  her  hand, 
with  a  taking  gesture  and  smile. 

130 


Miss  Dangerlie's  Roses 


''Good-night,"  said  Floyd,  and  passed  on 
up  the  stairs  to  the  dressing-room.  He  got  his 
coat  and  hat  and  came  down  the  stairway.  A 
group  seized  him. 

"  Come  to  the  club,"  they  said.  He  de- 
clined. 

"Roast  oysters  and  beer,"  they  said. 

"  No,  I'm  going  home." 

"  Are  you  ill  ?  "  asked  a  friend. 

"  No,  not  at  all.      Why?" 

"  You  look  like  a  man  who  has  seen  a 
spirit." 

"Do  I?  I'm  tired,  I  suppose.  Good- 
night,— good-night,  gentlemen,"  and  he  passed 
out. 

"  Perhaps  I  have,"  he  said  as  he  went  down 
the  cold  steps  into  the  frozen  street. 

Floyd  went  home  and  tossed  about  all  night. 
His  life  was  breaking  up,  he  was  all  at  sea. 
Why  had  he  met  her  ?  He  was  losing  the 
anchor  that  had  held  him.  "  They  call  her 
the  queen,"  the  little  girl  had  said.  She  must 
be.  He  had  seen  her  soul  through  her  eyes. 

Floyd  sent  her  the  poem  which  contained 
the  line  which  she  had  quoted  ;  and  she  wrote 
him  a  note  thanking  him.  It  pleased  him.  It 
was  sympathetic.  She  invited  him  to  call. 
He  went  to  see  her.  She  was  fine  in  grain 


Miss  Dangerlie's  Roses 


and  in  look.  A  closely  fitting  dark  gown 
ornamented  by  a  single  glorious  red  rose  which 
might  have  grown  where  it  lay,  and  her  soft 
hair  coiled  on  her  small  head,  as  she  entered 
tall  and  straight  and  calm,  made  Floyd  invol- 
untarily say  to  himself,  "  Yes  " — 

"She  was  right,"  he  said,  half  to  himself, 
half  aloud,  as  he  stood  gazing  at  her  with  in- 
quiring eyes  after  she  had  greeted  him  cordi- 
ally. 

"  What  was  right  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Something  a  little  girl  said  about  you." 

"  What  was  it  ?  " 

' '  I  will  tell  you  some  day,  when  I  know  you 
better. ' ' 

"  Was  it  a  compliment  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Tell  me  now." 

"  No,  wait." 

He  came  to  know  her  better ;  to  know  her 
very  well.  He  did  not  see  her  very  often,  but 
he  thought  of  her  a  great  deal.  He  seemed  to 
find  in  her  a  sympathy  which  he  needed.  It 
reminded  him  of  the  past.  He  awoke  from  his 
lethargy  ;  began  to  work  once  more  in  the  old 
way ;  mixed  among  men  again  ;  grew  brighter. 
"Henry  Floyd  is  growing  younger,  instead  of 
older,"  someone  said  of  him.  "  His  health 
132 


Miss  Dangerlie's  Roses 


has  been  bad,"  said  a  doctor.  "He  is  im- 
proving. I  thought  at  one  time  he  was 
going  to  die."  "  He  is  getting  rich,"  said  a 
broker,  who  had  been  a  schoolmate  of  his. 
"  I  see  he  has  just  invented  a  new  something  or 
other  to  relieve  children  with  hip  or  ankle-joint 
disease. ' ' 

"  Yes,  and  it  is  a  capital  thing,  too  ;  it  is  be- 
ing taken  up  by  the  profession.  I  use  it.  It 
is  a  curious  thing  that  he  should  have  hit  on 
that  when  he  is  not  a  surgeon.  He  had  studied 
anatomy  as  a  sort  of  fad,  as  he  does  everything. 
One  of  Haile  Tabb's  boys  was  bedridden,  and 
he  was  a  great  friend  of  his,  and  that  set  him  at 
it." 

"  I  don't  think  he's  so  much  of  a  crank  as 
he  used  to  be,"  said  someone. 

The  broker  who  had  been  his  schoolmate 
met  Floyd  next  day. 

"  I  see  you  have  been  having  a  great  stroke 
of  luck,"  he  said. 

"Have  I?" 

"Yes.  I  see  in  the  papers,  that  your  dis- 
covery, or  invention,  or  whatever  it  was,  has 
been  taken  up." 

"Oh!  yes— that?     It  has." 

"  I  congratulate  you." 

"Thank  you." 

133 


Miss  Danger lie's  Roses 


"  I  would  not  mind  looking  into  that." 

"Yes,  it  is  interesting." 

"  I  might  take  an  interest  in  it." 

"  Yes,  I  should  think  so." 

' '  How  much  do  you  ask  for  it  ?  " 

"  '  Ask  for  it  ?  '     Ask  for  what  ?  " 

"  For  an  interest  in  it,  either  a  part  or  the 
whole?" 

"What?" 

"  Yon  ought  to  make  a  good  thing  out  of  it 
— out  of  your  patent." 

"  My  patent !     I  haven't  any  patent." 

"What!     No  patent?" 

"No.  It's  for  the  good  of  people  gener- 
ally." 

"  But  you  got  a  patent?  " 

"No." 

"  Couldn't  you  get  a  patent?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"Well,  I'll  be  bound  I'd  have  got  a  pat- 
ent." 

"  Oh  !  no,  I  don't  think  so." 

"  I  tell  you  what,  you  ought  to  turn  your 
talents  to  account,"  said  his  friend. 

"  Yes,  I  know  I  ought." 

"  You  could  be  a  rich  man." 

"  But  I  don't  care  to  be  rich." 

"  What  !    Oh  !  nonsense.     Everyone  does." 

134 


Miss  Danger  lie's  Roses 


11 1  do  not.     I  want  to  live." 

"  But  you  don't  live." 

"  Well,  maybe  I  shall  some  day." 

"  You  merely  exist." 

"  Why  should  I  want  to  be  rich  ?  " 

11  To  live — to  buy  what  you  want." 

' '  I  want  sympathy,  love ;  can  one  buy 
that?" 

"  Yes — even  that." 

"  No,  you  cannot.  There  is  only  one  sort 
of  woman  to  be  bought." 

"  Well,  come  and  see  me  sometimes,  won't 
you?" 

"  Well,  no,  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you  ; 
but  I  don't  think  I  can." 

"Why?  I  have  lots  of  rich  men  come  to 
my  house.  You'd  find  it  to  your  advantage  if 
you'd  come." 

"Thank  you." 

"  We  could  make  big  money  together 
if " 

He  paused.     Floyd  was  looking  at  him. 
"Could  we?     If— what?" 
"  If  you  would  let  me  use  you." 
"Thank  you,"  said  Floyd.      "  Perhaps  we 
could." 

"  Why  won't  you  come?  " 

"Well,  the  fact  is,  I  haven't  time.     I  shall 

135 


Miss  Danger  lie's  Roses 


have  to  wait  to  get  a  little  richer  before  I  can 
afford  it.  Besides  I  have  a  standing  engage- 
ment. ' ' 

"  Oh  !  no,  we  won't  squeeze  you.  I  tell  you 
what,  come  up  to  dinner  to-morrow.  I'm  go- 
ing to  have  a  fellow  there,  an  awfully  rich  fel- 
low— want  to  interest  him  in  some  things,  and 
I've  invited  him  down.  He  is  young  Router, 
the  son  of  the  great  Router,  you  know  who  he 
is?" 

"  Well,  no,  I  don't  believe  I  do.  Good-by. 
Sorry  I  can't  come  ;  but  I  have  an  engage- 
ment." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  To  play  mumble-the-peg  with  some  boys: 
Haile  Tabb'sboys." 

"  Oh  !  hang  the  boys  !  Come  up  to  dinner. 
It  is  an  opportunity  you  may  not  have  again 
shortly.  Router's  awfully  successful,  and  you 
can  interest  him.  I  tell  you  what  I'll  do " 

"  No,  thank  you,  I'll  keep  my  engagement. 
Good-by." 

"  That  fellow's  either  a  fool  or  he  is  crazy," 
said  his  friend,  gazing  after  him  as  he  walked 
away.  "  And  he's  got  some  sense  too.  If 
he'd  let  me  use  him  I  could  make  money  out  of 
him  for  both  of  us." 

It  was  not  long  before  Floyd  began  to  be 
136 


Miss  Danger  lie's  Roses 


known  more  widely.  He  had  schemes  for  the 
amelioration  of  the  condition  of  the  poor. 
They  were  pronounced  quixotic  ;  but  he  kept 
on.  He  said  he  got  good  out  of  them  if  no  one 
else  did. 

He  began  to  go  oftener  and  oftener  down  to 
the  City,  where  Miss  Dangerlie  lived.  He  did 
not  see  a  great  deal  of  her ;  but  he  wrote  to 
her.  He  found  in  her  a  ready  sympathy  with 
his  plans.  It  was  not  just  as  it  used  to  be  in 
his  earlier  love  affair,  where  he  used  to  find 
himself  uplifted  and  borne  along  by  the  strong 
spirit  which  had  called  him  from  the  dead  ; 
but  if  it  was  not  this  that  he  got,  it  was  what 
contented  him.  Whatever  he  suggested,  she 
accepted.  He  found  in  her  tastes  a  wonderful 
similarity  with  his,  and  from  that  he  drew 
strength. 

Women  in  talking  of  him  in  connection  with 
her  said  it  was  a  pity ;  men  said  he  was  lucky. 

One  evening,  at  a  reception  at  her  house,  he 
was  in  the  gentlemen's  dressing-room.  It  was 
evidently  a  lady's  apartment  which  had  been 
devoted  for  the  occasion  as  a  dressing-room. 
It  was  quite  full  at  the  time.  A  man,  a  large 
fellow  with  sleek,  short  hair,  a  fat  chin,  and  a 
dazzling  waistcoat,  pulled  open  a  lower  draw- 
er in  a  bureau.  Articles  of  a  lady's  apparel 

137 


Miss  Danger  lie's  Roses 


were  discovered,  spotless  and  neatly  arranged. 
"  Shut  that  drawer  instantly,"  said  Floyd,  in  a 
low,  imperious  tone. 

"  Suppose  I  don't,  what  then  ?  " 

"  I  will  pitch  you  out  of  that  window,"  said 
Floyd,  quietly,  moving  a  step  nearer  to  him. 
The  drawer  was  closed,  and  the  man  turned 
away. 

< '  Do  you  know  who  that  was  ?  ' '  asked 
someone  of  Floyd. 

"  No,  not  the  slightest  idea." 

"  That  was  young  Router,  the  son  of  the 
great  Router." 

"  Who  is  the-great -Router  ?  " 

"  The  great  pork  man.  His  son  is  the  one 
who  is  so  attentive  to  Miss  Dangerlie. ' ' 

"I  am  glad  he  closed  the  drawer,"  said 
Floyd,  quietly. 

"  He  is  said  to  be  engaged  to  her,"  said  the 
gentleman. 

"  He  is  not  engaged  to  her,"  said  Floyd. 

Later  on  he  was  talking  to  Miss  Dangerlie. 
He  had  taken  her  out  of  the  throng.  "  Do  you 
know  who  introduced  me  to  you?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Drivington." 

"  No,  a  little  girl." 

' '  Who  ?    Why,  don' t  you  remember  !     I  am 
surprised.     It  was  just  in  the  doorway  !  " 
138 


Miss  Dangerlie's  Roses 


"  Oh  !  yes,  I  remember  well  enough.  I  met 
a  beauty  there,  but  I  did  not  care  for  her. 
I  met  you  first  on  the  stairway,  and  a  child  in- 
troduced me." 

"Children  interest  me,  they  always  admire 
one,"  she  said. 

"  They  interest  me,  I  always  admire  them," 
he  said.  "  They  are  true." 

She  was  silent,  then  changed  the  subject. 

* '  A  singular  little  incident  befell  me  this  even- 
ing," she  said.  "  As  I  was  coming  home  from 
a  luncheon-party,  a  wretched  woman  stopped 
me  and  asked  me  to  let  her  look  at  me. ' ' 

"  You  did  it,  of  course,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  eyes  wide  open 
with  surprise. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  a  man  said  to  me 
upstairs  ?  "  he  asked  her. 

-What?" 

"  That  you  were  engaged  to  someone." 

"  What  !  That  I  was  engaged  !  To  whom, 
pray?  "  She  looked  incredulous. 

"  To  a  fellow  I  saw  up  there — Mr.  <  Router,' 
I  think  he  said  was  his  name. ' ' 

-The  idea!  Engaged  to  Mr.  Router! 
You  did  not  believe  him,  did  you?  " 

"  No,  of  course  I  did  not ;  I  trust  you  en- 
tirely." 

139 


Miss  Dangerlie's  Roses 


She  buried  her  face  in  the  roses  she  held  in 
her  hand,  and  did  not  speak.  Her  other 
hand  rested  on  the  arm  of  her  chair  next  him. 
It  was  fine  and  white.  He  laid  his  on  it 
firmly,  and  leaning  towards  her,  said,  "I  beg 
your  pardon  for  mentioning  it.  I  am  not  sur- 
prised that  you  are  hurt.  Forgive  me.  I 
could  not  care  for  you  so  much  if  I  did  not  be- 
lieve in  you." 

"  It  was  so  kind  in  you  to  send  me  these 
roses,"  she  said.  "  Aren't  they  beautiful  ?  " 

She  turned  them  round  and  gazed  at  them 
with  her  face  slightly  averted. 

* '  Yes,  they  are,  and  yet  I  hate  to  see  them 
tied  that  way ;  I  ordered  them  sent  to  you 
loose.  I  always  like  to  think  of  you  as  arrang- 
ing roses." 

"  Yes,  I  love  to  arrange  them  myself,"  she 
said. 

"  The  fact  is,  as  beautiful  as  those  are,  I  be- 
lieve I  like  better  the  old-fashioned  roses  right 
out  of  the  dew.  I  suppose  it  is  old  association. 
But  I  know  an  old  garden  up  at  an  old  country- 
place,  where  my  mother  used  to  live  as  a  girl. 
It  used  to  be  filled  up  with  roses,  and  I  always 
think  of  the  roses  there  as  sweeter  than  any 
others  in  the  world." 

< '  Yes,  I  like  the  old-fashioned  roses  best 
140 


Mss  Danger  lie's  Roses 


too,"   she  said,  with    that   similarity   of  taste 
which  always  pleased  him." 

' '  The  next  time  I  come  to  see  you  I  am  go- 
ing to  bring  you  some  of  those  roses,"  he  said. 
"  My  mother  used  to  tell  me  of  my  father 
going  out  and  getting  them  for  her,  and  I  would 
like  you  to  have  some  of  them." 

"  Oh  !  thank  you.  How  far  is  it  from  your 
home?" 

"  Fifteen  or  twenty  miles." 

11  But  you  cannot  get  them  there." 

"Oh!  yes,  I  can;  the  fact  is,  I  own  the 
place."  She  looked  interested.  "Oh!  it  is 
not  worth  anything  as  land,"  he  said,  "but  I 
love  the  association.  My  mother  was  brought 
up  there,  and  I  keep  up  the  garden  just  as  it 
was.  You  shall  have  the  roses.  Some  day 
I  want  to  see  you  among  them."  Just  then 
there  was  a  step  behind  him.  She  rose. 

"Is  it  ours?"  she  asked  someone  over  her 
shoulder. 

"  Yes,  come  along." 

Floyd  glanced  around.  It  was  the  "son  of 
the  great  Router." 

She  turned  to  Floyd,  and  said,  in  an  earnest 
undertone,  "I  am  very  sorry;    but  I  had  an 
engagement.     Good-by."      She   held  out  her 
hand.     Floyd  took  it  and  pressed  it. 
141 


Miss  Danger  lie's  Roses 


"  Good-by,"  he  said,  tenderly.  "That  is 
all  right." 

She  took  the-son-of-the-great-Router's  arm. 

One  afternoon,  a  month  after  Miss  Dan- 
gerlie's  reception,  Henry  Floyd  was  packing 
his  trunk.  He  had  just  looked  at  his  watch, 
when  there  was  a  ring  at  the  bell.  He  knew  it 
was  the  postman,  and  a  soft  look  came  over  his 
face  as  he  reflected  that  even  if  he  got  no  letter 
he  would  see  her  within  a  few  hours.  A  large 
box  of  glorious  old-fashioned  roses  was  on  the 
floor  near  him,  and  a  roll  of  money  and  a  time- 
table lay  beside  it.  He  had  ridden  thirty  miles 
that  morning  to  get  and  bring  the  roses  him- 
self for  one  whom  he  always  thought  of  in  con- 
nection with  them. 

A  letter  was  brought  in,  and  a  pleased  smile 
lit  up  the  young  man's  face  as  he  saw  the  hand- 
writing. He  laid  on  the  side  of  the  trunk 
a  coat  that  he  held,  and  then  sat  down  on  the 
arm  of  a  chair  and  opened  the  letter.  His 
hand  stroked  it  softly  as  if  it  were  of  velvet. 
He  wore  a  pleased  smile  as  he  began  to  read. 
Then  the  smile  died  away  and  a  startled  look 
took  its  place.  The  color  faded  out  of  his  face, 
and  his  mouth  closed  firmly.  When  he  was 
through  he  turned  back  and  read  the  letter  all 
142 


Miss  Danger  lie's  Roses 


over  again,  slowly.  It  seemed  hard  to  under- 
stand ;  for  after  a  pause  he  read  it  over  a  third 
time.  Then  he  looked  straight  before  him  for 
a  moment,  and  then  slowly  tore  it  up  into 
thin  shreds  and  crumpled  them  up  in  his  hand. 
Ten  minutes  later  he  rose  from  his  seat  and 
dropped  the  torn  pieces  into  the  fireplace. 
He  walked  over  and  put  on  his  hat  and  coat, 
and  going  out,  pulled  the  door  firmly  to  behind 
him.  The  trunk,  partly  packed,  stood  open 
with  the  half-folded  coat  hanging  over  its  edge 
and  with  the  roses  lying  by  its  side. 

Floyd  walked  into  the  Club  and,  returning 
quietly  the  salutations  of  a  group  of  friends, 
went  over  to  a  rack  and  drew  out  a  newspaper 
file,  with  which  he  passed  into  another  room. 

"Announcement  of  Engagement:  Router 
and  Dangerlie,"  was  the  heading  on  which  his 
eye  rested.  "It  is  stated,"  ran  the  paragraph, 
"  that  they  have  been  engaged  some  time,  but 
no  announcement  has  been  made  until  now,  on 
the  eve  of  the  wedding,  owing  to  the  young 
lady's  delicacy  of  feeling." 

That  night  Henry  Floyd  wrote  a  letter. 
This  was  the  close  of  it : 

"Possibly  your  recollection  may  hereafter 
trouble  you.  I  wish  to  say  that  I  do  not  hold 
you  accountable  in  any  way." 

143 


Mss  Danger  lie's  Roses 


That  night  a  wretched  creature,  half  beggar, 
half  worse,  was  standing  on  the  street  under 
a  lamp.  A  man  came  along.  She  glanced  at 
him  timidly.  He  was  looking  at  her,  but  it 
would  not  do  to  speak  to  him,  he  was  a  gentle- 
man going  somewhere.  His  hands  were  full  of 
roses.  He  posted  a  letter  in  the  box,  then  to 
her  astonishment  he  stopped  at  her  side  and 
spoke  to  her. 

"Here  are  some  roses  for  you,"  he  said, 
"and  here  is  some  money.  Go  home  to- 
night." 

He  pushed  the  roses  and  money  into  her 
hands,  and  turning,  went  back  up  the  dim 
street. 


144 


How  the  Captain  Made 
Christmas 


HOW  THE    CAPTAIN   MADE 
CHRISTMAS 

IT  was  just  a  few  days  before  Christmas,  and 
the  men  around  the  large  fireplace  at  the 
club  had,  not  unnaturally,  fallen  to  talking  of 
Christmas.  They  were  all  men  in  the  prime  of 
life,  and  all  or  nearly  all  of  them  were  from 
other  parts  of  the  country  ;  men  who  had  come 
to  the  great  city  to  make  their  way  in  life,  and 
who  had,  on  the  whole,  made  it  in  one  degree 
or  another,  achieving  sufficient  success  in  dif- 
ferent fields  to  allow  of  all  being  called  success- 
ful men.  Yet,  as  the  conversation  had  pro- 
ceeded, it  had  taken  a  reminiscent  turn.  When 
it  began,  only  three  persons  were  engaged  in  it, 
two  of  whom,  McPheeters  and  Lesponts,  were 
in  lounging-chairs,  with  their  feet  stretched  out 
towards  the  log  fire,  while  the  third,  Newton, 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  great  hearth,  and 
his  coat-tails  well  divided.  The  other  men 
were  scattered  about  the  room,  one  or  two 
writing  at  tables,  three  or  four  reading  the 

H7 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 


evening  papers,  and  the  rest  talking  and  sip- 
ping whiskey  and  water,  or  only  talking  or  only 
sipping  whiskey  and  water.  As  the  conversa- 
tion proceeded  around  the  fireplace,  however, 
one  after  another  joined  the  group  there,  until 
the  circle  included  every  man  in  the  room. 

It  had  begun  by  Lesponts,  who  had  been 
looking  intently  at  Newton  for  some  moments 
as  he  stood  before  the  fire  with  his  legs  well 
apart  and  his  eyes  fastened  on  the  carpet,  break- 
ing the  silence  by  asking,  suddenly  :  ' '  Are 
you  going  home  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Newton,  doubtfully, 
recalled  from  somewhere  in  dreamland,  but  so 
slowly  that  a  part  of  his  thoughts  were  still 
lingering  there.  "I  haven't  made  up  my 
mind — I'm  not  sure  that  I  can  go  so  far  as 
Virginia,  and  I  have  an  invitation  to  a  delight- 
ful place — a  house-party  near  here." 

"Newton,  anybody  would  know  that  you 
were  a  Virginian,"  said  McPheeters,  "  by  the 
way  you  stand  before  that  fire. ' ' 

Newton  said,  "Yes,"  and  then,  as  the  half 
smile  the  charge  had  brought  up  died  away,  he 
said,  slowly,  "  I  was  just  thinking  how  good  it 
felt,  and  I  had  gone  back  and  was  standing  in 
the  old  parlor  at  home  the  first  time  I  ever 
noticed  my  father  doing  it;  I  remember  get- 
148 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 

ting  up  and  standing  by  him,  a  little  scrap  of 
a  fellow,  trying  to  stand  just  as  he  did,  and 
I  was  feeling  the  fire,  just  now,  just  as  I  did 
that  night.  That  was — thirty-three  years  ago," 
said  Newton,  slowly,  as  if  he  were  doling  the 
years  from  his  memory. 

"Newton,  is  your  father  living?"  asked 
Lesponts.  "  No,  but  my  mother  is,"  he  said; 
"she  still  lives  at  the  old  home  in  the  coun- 
try." 

From  this  the  talk  had  gone  on,  and  nearly 
all  had  contributed  to  it,  even  the  most  reti- 
cent of  them,  drawn  out  by  the  universal  sym- 
pathy which  the  subject  had  called  forth.  The 
great  city,  with  all  its  manifold  interests,  was 
forgotten,  and  the  men  of  the  world  went  back 
to  their  childhood  and  early  life  in  little  vil- 
lages or  on  old  plantations,  and  told  incidents 
of  the  time  when  the  outer  world  was  unknown, 
and  all  things  had  those  strange  and  large  pro- 
portions which  the  mind  of  childhood  gives. 
Old  times  were  ransacked  and  Christmas  expe- 
riences in  them  were  given  without  stint,  and 
the  season  was  voted,  without  dissent,  to  have 
been  far  ahead  of  Christmas  now.  Presently, 
one  of  the  party  said  :  "  Did  any  of  you  ever 
spend  a  Christmas  on  the  cars  ?  If  you  have 
not,  thank  Heaven,  and  pray  to  be  preserved 
149 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 


from  it  henceforth,  for  I've  done  it,  and  I  tell 
you  it's  next  to  purgatory.  I  spent  one  once, 
stuck  in  a  snow-drift,  or  almost  stuck,  for  we 
were  ten  hours  late,  and  missed  all  connections, 
and  the  Christmas  I  had  expected  to  spend 
with  friends,  I  passed  in  a  nasty  car  with  a 
surly  Pullman  conductor,  an  impudent  mulatto 
porter,  and  a  lot  of  fools,  all  of  whom  could 
have  murdered  each  other,  not  to  speak  of  a 
crying  baby  whose  murder  was  perhaps  the  only 
thing  all  would  have  united  on." 

This  harsh  speech  showed  that  the  subject 
was  about  exhausted,  and  someone,  a  man  who 
had  come  in  only  in  time  to  hear  the  last 
speaker,  had  just  hazarded  the  remark,  in  a 
faint  imitation  of  an  English  accent,  that  the 
sub-officials  in  this  country  were  a  surly,  ill- 
conditioned  lot,  anyhow,  and  always  were  as 
rude  as  they  dared  to  be,  when  Lesponts,  who 
had  looked  at  the  speaker  lazily,  said  : 

"  Yes,  I  have  spent  a  Christmas  on  a  sleep- 
ing-car, and,  strange  to  say,  I  have  a  most  de- 
lightful recollection  of  it." 

This  was  surprising  enough  to  have  gained 
him  a  hearing  anyhow,  but  the  memory  of  the 
occasion  was  evidently  sufficiently  strong  to 
carry  Lesponts  over  obstacles,  and  he  went 
ahead. 

150 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 


"  Has  any  of  you  ever  taken  the  night  train 
that  goes  from  here  South  through  the  Cum- 
berland and  Shenandoah  Valleys,  or  from 
Washington  to  strike  that  train  ?  ' ' 

No  one  seemed  to  have  done  so,  and  he  went 
on  : 

"  Well,  do  it,  and  you  can  even  do  it  Christ- 
mas, if  you  get  the  right  conductor.  It's  well 
worth  doing  the  first  chance  you  get,  for  it's 
almost  the  prettiest  country  in  the  world  that 
you  go  through;  there  is  nothing  that  I've 
ever  seen  lovelier  than  parts  of  the  Cumberland 
and  Shenandoah  Valleys,  and  the  New  River 
Valley  is  just  as  pretty, — that  background  of 
blue  beyond  those  rolling  hills,  and  all, — you 
know,  McPheeters?"  McPheeters  nodded, 
and  he  proceeded : 

"  I  always  go  that  way  now  when  I  go  South. 
Well,  I  went  South  one  winter  just  at  Christ- 
mas, and  I  took  that  train  by  accident.  I 
was  going  to  New  Orleans  to  spend  Christ- 
inas, and  had  expected  to  have  gotten  off 
to  be  there  several  days  beforehand,  but  an 
unlooked-for  matter  had  turned  up  and  pre- 
vented my  getting  away,  and  I  had  given  up 
the  idea  of  going,  when  I  changed  my  mind  : 
the  fact  is,  I  was  in  a  row  with  a  friend  of  mine 
there.  I  decided,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment, 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 

to  go,  anyhow,  and  thus  got  off  on  the  after- 
noon train  for  Washington,  intending  to  run 
my  luck  for  getting  a  sleeper  there.  This  was 
the  day  before  Christmas-eve  and  I  was  due  to 
arrive  in  New  Orleans  Christmas-day,  some 
time.  Well,  when  I  got  to  Washington  there 
was  not  a  berth  to  be  had  for  love  or  money, 
and  I  was  in  a  pickle.  I  fumed  and  fussed ; 
abused  the  railroad  companies  and  got  mad 
with  the  ticket  agent,  who  seemed,  I  thought, 
to  be  very  indifferent  as  to  whether  I  went  to 
New  Orleans  or  not,  and  I  had  just  decided  to 
turn  around  and  come  back  to  New  York,  when 
the  agent,  who  was  making  change  for  someone 
else,  said :  '  I'm  not  positive,  but  I  think 
there's  a  train  on  such  and  such  a  road,  and 
you  may  be  able  to  get  a  berth  on  that.  It 
leaves  about  this  time,  and  if  you  hurry  you 
may  be  able  to  catch  it.'  He  looked  at  his 
watch  :  '  Yes,  you've  just  about  time  to  stand 
a  chance ;  everything  is  late  to-day,  there  are 
such  crowds,  and  the  snow  and  all. '  I  thanked 
him,  feeling  like  a  dog  over  my  ill-temper  and 
rudeness  to  him,  and  decided  to  try.  Any- 
thing was  better  than  New  York,  Christmas- 
day.  So  I  jumped  into  a  carriage  and  told  the 
driver  to  drive  like  the — the  wind,  and  he  did. 
When  we  arrived  at  the  station  the  ticket  agent 
152 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 


could  not  tell  me  whether  I  could  get  a  berth 
or  not,  the  conductor  had  the  diagram  out  at 
the  train,  but  he  thought  there  was  not  the 
slightest  chance.  I  had  gotten  warmed  up, 
however,  by  my  friend's  civility  at  the  other 
station,  and  I  meant  to  go  if  there  was  any 
way  to  do  it,  so  I  grabbed  up  my  bags  and 
rushed  out  of  the  warm  depot  into  the  cold  air 
again.  I  found  the  car  and  the  conductor 
standing  outside  of  it  by  the  steps.  The  first 
thing  that  struck  me  was  his  appearance.  In- 
stead of  being  the  dapper  young  naval-officer  - 
ish-looking  fellow  I  was  accustomed  to,  he  was 
a  stout,  elderly  man,  with  bushy,  gray  hair  and 
a  heavy,  grizzled  mustache,  who  looked  like  an 
old  field-marshal.  He  was  surrounded  by  quite 
a  number  of  people  all  crowding  about  him 
and  asking  him  questions  at  once,  some  of 
whose  questions  he  was  answering  slowly  as  he 
pored  over  his  diagram,  and  others  of  which  he 
seemed  to  be  ignoring.  Seme  were  querulous, 
some  good-natured,  and  all  impatient,  but  he 
answered  them  all  with  imperturbable  good  hu- 
mor. It  was  very  cold,  so  I  pushed  my  way 
into  the  crowd.  As  I  did  so  I  heard  him  say 
to  someone :  'You  asked  me  if  the  lo\ver 
berths  were  all  taken,  did  you  not  ?  '  '  Yes, 
five  minutes  ago  !  '  snapped  the  fellow,  whom 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 


I  had  already  heard  swearing,  on  the  edge  of 
the  circle.  '  Well,  they  are  all  taken,  just  as 
they  were  the  first  time  I  told  you  they  were,' 
he  said,  and  opened  a  despatch  given  him  by 
his  porter,  a  tall,  black,  elderly  negro  with  gray 
hair.  I  pushed  my  way  in  and  asked  him,  in 
my  most  dulcet  tone,  if  I  could  get  an  upper 
berth  to  New  Orleans.  I  called  him  '  Captain,' 
thinking  him  a  pompous  old  fellow.  He  was 
just  beginning  to  speak  to  someone  else,  but  I 
caught  him  and  he  looked  across  the  crowd  and 
said  <  New  Orleans  !  '  My  heart  sank  at  the 
tone,  and  he  went  on  talking  to  some  other  man. 
<  I  told  you  that  I  would  give  you  a  lower  berth, 
sir,  I  can  give  you  one  now,  I  have  just  got  a 
message  that  the  person  who  had  "  lower  two  " 
will  not  want  it.'  «  Hold  on,  then,  I'll  take 
that  lower/  called  the  man  who  had  spoken 
before,  over  the  crowd,  '  I  spoke  for  it  first.' 
'  No  you  won't,'  said  the  Captain,  who  went  on 
writing.  The  man  pushed  his  way  in  angrily, 
a  big,  self-assertive  fellow  ;  he  was  evidently 
smarting  from  his  first  repulse.  '  What's  that? 
I  did,  I  say.  I  was  here  before  that  man  got 
here,  and  asked  you  for  a  lower  berth,  and  you 
said  they  were  all  taken. '  The  Captain  stopped 
and  looked  at  him.  '  My  dear  sir,  I  know  you 
did ;  but  this  gentleman  has  a  lady  along. ' 

154 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 


But  the  fellow  was  angry.  '  I  don't  care,'  he 
said,  '  I  engaged  the  berth  and  I  know  my 
rights ;  I  mean  to  have  that  lower  berth,  or  I'll 
see  which  is  bigger,  you  or  Mr.  Pullman.'  Just 
then  a  lady,  who  had  come  out  on  the  steps, 
spoke  to  the  Captain  about  her  seat  in  the  car. 
He  turned  to  her  :  '  My  dear  madam,  you  are 
all  right,  just  go  in  there  and, take  your  seat 
anywhere ;  when  I  come  in  I  will  fix  every- 
thing. Go  straight  into  that  car  and  don't 
come  out  in  this  cold  air  any  more.'  The  lady 
went  back  and  the  old  fellow  said,  '  Nick,  go 
in  there  and  seat  that  lady,  if  you  have  to  turn 
every  man  out  of  his  seat.'  Then,  as  the  por- 
ter went  in,  he  turned  back  to  his  irate  friend. 
'  Now,  my  dear  sir,  you  don't  mean  that : 
you'd  be  the  first  man  to  give  up  your  berth  ; 
this  gentleman  has  his  sick  wife  with  him  and 
has  been  ordered  to  take  her  South  immediate- 
ly, and  she's  going  to  have  a  lower  berth  if  I 
turn  every  man  in  that  car  out,  and  if  you  were 
Mr.  Pullman  himself  I'd  tell  you  the  same 
thing.'  The  man  fell  back,  baffled  and  hum- 
bled, and  we  all  enjoyed  it.  Still,  I  was  with- 
out a  berth,  so,  with  some  misgiving,  I  began  : 
'  Captain  ?  '  He  turned  to  me.  '  Oh  !  you 
want  to  go  to  New  Orleans  ?  '  '  Yes,  to  spend 
Christmas  ;  any  chance  for  me  ?  '  He  looked 

155 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 

at  his  watch.  '  My  dear  young  sir,'  he  said, 
1  go  into  the  car  and  take  a  seat,  and  I'll  do 
the  best  I  can  with  you.'  I  went  in,  not  at  all 
sure  that  I  should  get  a  berth. 

"This,  of  course,  was  only  a  part  of  what 
went  on,  but  the  crowd  had  gotten  into  a  good 
humor  and  was  joking,  and  I  had  fallen  into  the 
same  spirit.  The  first  person  I  looked  for  when 
I  entered  the  car  was,  of  course,  the  sick  woman. 
I  soon  picked  her  out :  a  sweet,  frail-looking 
lady,  with  that  fatal,  transparent  hue  of  skin  and 
fine  complexion.  She  was  all  muffled  up,  al- 
though the  car  was  very  warm .  Every  seat  was 
either  occupied  or  piled  high  with  bags.  Well, 
the  train  started,  and  in  a  little  while  the  Cap- 
tain came  in,  and  the  way  that  old  fellow  straight- 
ened things  out  was  a  revelation.  He  took 
charge  of  the  car  and  ran  it  as  if  he  had  been 
the  Captain  of  a  boat.  At  first  some  of  the  pas- 
sengers were  inclined  to  grumble,  but  in  a  little 
while  they  gave  in.  As  for  me,  I  had  gotten  an 
upper  berth  and  felt  satisfied.  When  I  waked 
up  next  morning,  however,  we  were  only  a 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  from  Washington,  and 
were  standing  still.  The  next  day  was  Christ- 
mas, and  every  passenger  on  the  train,  except 
the  sick  lady  and  her  husband,  and  the  Cap- 
tain, had  an  engagement  for  Christmas  dinner 
156 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 

somewhere  a  thousand  miles  away.  There  had 
been  an  accident  on  the  road.  The  train 
which  was  coming  north  had  jumped  the  track 
at  a  trestle  and  torn  a  part  of  it  away.  Two 
or  three  of  the  trainmen  had  been  hurt.  There 
was  no  chance  of  getting  by  for  several  hours 
more.  It  was  a  blue  party  that  assembled  in  the 
dressing-room,  and  more  than  one  cursed  his 
luck.  One  man  was  talking  of  suing  the  com- 
pany. I  was  feeling  pretty  gloomy  myself, 
when  the  Captain  came  in.  '  Well,  gentlemen, 
*  Christmas-gift '  ;  it's  a  fine  morning,  you  must 
go  out  and  taste  it,'  he  said,  in  a  cheery  voice, 
which  made  me  feel  fresher  and  better  at  once, 
and  which  brought  a  response  from  every  man 
in  the  dressing-room.  Someone  asked  promptly 
how  long  we  should  be  there.  l  I  can't  tell  you, 
sir,  but  some  little  time  ;  several  hours.  There 
was  a  groan.  '  You'll  have  time  to  go  over 
the  battle-field,'  said  the  Captain,  still  cheerily. 
'  We  are  close  to  the  field  of  one  of  the  bitterest 
battles  of  the  war. '  And  then  he  proceeded  to 
tell  us  about  it  briefly.  He  said,  in  answer  to 
a  question,  that  he  had  been  in  it.  '  On  which 
side,  Captain  ?  '  asked  someone.  '  Sir  !  '  with 
some  surprise  in  his  voice.  '  On  which  side  ?  ' 
'  On  our  side,  sir,  of  course.'  We  decided  to 
go  over  the  field,  and  after  breakfast  we  did. 

157 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 


"  The  Captain  walked  with  us  over  the  ground 
and  showed  us  the  lines  of  attack  and  defence ; 
pointed  out  where  the  heaviest  fighting  was  done, 
and  gave  a  graphic  account  of  the  whole  cam- 
paign. It  was  the  only  battle-field  I  had  ever  been 
over,  and  I  was  so  much  interested  that  when  I 
got  home  I  read  up  the  campaign,  and  that  set 
me  to  reading  up  on  the  whole  subject  of  the 
war.  We  walked  back  over  the  hills,  and  I  never 
enjoyed  a  walk  more.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  got  new 
strength  from  the  cold  air.  The  old  fellow 
stopped  at  a  little  house  on  our  way  back,  and 
went  in  whilst  we  waited.  When  he  came  out 
he  had  a  little  bouquet  of  geranium  leaves  and 
lemon  verbena  which  he  had  got.  I  had  no- 
ticed them  in  the  window  as  we  went  by,  and 
when  I  saw  the  way  the  sick  lady  looked  when 
he  gave  them  to  her,  I  wished  I  had  brought 
them  instead  of  him.  Some  one  intent  on 
knowledge  asked  him  how  much  he  paid  for 
them  ? 

"  He  said,  •'  Paid  for  them  !     Nothing.' 

"  '  Did  you  know  them  before  ?  '  he  asked. 

"  'No,  sir.'     That  was  all. 

"  A  little  while  afterwards  I  saw  him  asleep 
in  a  seat,  but  when  the  train  started  he  got  up. 

"  The  old  Captain  by  this  time  owned  the  car. 
He  was  not  only  an  official,  he  was  a  host,  and 
158 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 

he  did  the  honors  as  if  he  were  in  his  own  house 
and  we  were  his  guests  ;  all  was  done  so  quietly 
and  unobtrusively,  too  ;  he  pulled  up  a  blind 
here,  and  drew  one  down  there,  just  a  few 
inches,  '  to  give  you  a  little  more  light  on  your 
book,  sir'  ; — « to  shut  out  a  little  of  the  glare, 
madam — reading  on  the  cars  is  a  little  more 
trying  to  the  eyes  than  one  is  apt  to  fancy. '  He 
stopped  to  lean  over  and  tell  you  that  if  you 
looked  out  of  your  window  you  would  see  what 
he  thought  one  of  the  prettiest  views  in  the 
world  ;  or  to  mention  the  fact  that  on  the  right 
was  one  of  the  most  celebrated  old  places  in  the 
State,  a  plantation  which  had  once  belonged  to 
Colonel  So-and-So,  '  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
men  of  his  day,  sir.' 

"  His  porter,  Nicholas,  was  his  admirable  sec- 
ond ;  not  a  porter  at  all,  but  a  body-servant; 
as  different  from  the  ordinary  Pullman-car  por- 
ter as  light  from  darkness.  In  fact,  it  turned 
out  that  he  had  been  an  old  servant  of  the 
Captain's.  I  happened  to  speak  of  him  to  the 
Captain,  and  he  said  :  '  Yes,  sir,  he's  a  very  good 
boy  ;  I  raised  him,  or  rather,  my  father  did ;  he 
comes  of  a  good  stock  ;  plenty  of  sense  and  know 
their  places.  When  I  came  on  the  road  they  gave 
me  a  mulatto  fellow  whom  I  couldn't  stand,  one 
of  these  young,  new,  "  free  -issue  "  some  call 

159 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 

them,  sir,  I  believe;  I  couldn't  stand  him,  I 
got  rid  of  him.'  I  asked  him  what  was  the 
trouble.  '  Oh  !  no  trouble  at  all,  sir ;  he  just 
didn't  know  his  place,  and  I  taught  him.  He 
could  read  and  write  a  little — a  negro  is  very 
apt  to  think,  sir,  that  if  he  can  write  he  is  edu- 
cated— he  could  write,  and  thought  he  was  edu- 
cated ;  he  chewed  a  toothpick  and  thought  he 
was  a  gentleman.  I  soon  taught  him  better. 
He  was  impertinent,  and  I  put  him  off  the  train. 
After  that  I  told  them  that  I  must  have  my  own 
servant  if  I  was  to  remain  with  them,  and  I  got 
Nick.  He  is  an  excellent  boy  (he  was  about 
fifty-five).  The  black  is  a  capital  servant,  sir, 
when  he  has  sense,  far  better  than  the  mulatto. ' 
"  I  became  very  intimate  with  the  old  fellow. 
You  could  not  help  it.  He  had  a  way  about 
him  that  drew  you  out.  I  told  him  I  was  going 
to  New  Orleans  to  pay  a  visit  to  friends  there. 
He  said,  '  Got  a  sweetheart  there  ?  '  I  was 
rather  taken  aback;  but  I  told  him,  'Yes.' 
He  said  he  knew  it  as  soon  as  I  spoke  to 
him  on  the  platform.  He  asked  me  who  she 
was,  and  I  told  him  her  name.  He  said  to  me, 
'  Ah  !  you  lucky  dog. '  I  told  him  I  did  not 
know  that  I  was  not  most  unlucky,  for  I  had  no 
reason  to  think  she  was  going  to  marry  me.  He 
said,  '  You  tell  her  I  say  you'll  be  all  right.'  I 
160 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 

felt  better,  especially  when  the  old  chap  said, 
*  I'll  tell  her  so  myself.'  He  knew  her.  She 
always  travelled  with  him  when  she  came  North, 
he  said. 

"  I  did  not  know  at  all  that  I  was  all  right ; 
in  fact,  I  was  rather  low  down  just  then  about 
my  chances,  which  was  the  only  reason  I 
was  so  anxious  to  go  to  New  Orleans,  and  I 
wanted  just  that  encouragement  and  it  helped 
me  mightily.  I  began  to  think  Christmas  on 
the  cars  wasn't  quite  so  bad  after  all.  He  drew 
me  on,  and  before  I  knew  it  I  had  told  him  all 
about  myself.  It  was  the  queerest  thing  ;  I  had 
no  idea  in  the  world  of  talking  about  my  mat- 
ters. I  had  hardly  ever  spoken  of  her  to  a  soul ; 
but  the  old  chap  had  a  way  of  making  you  feel 
that  he  would  be  certain  to  understand  you,  and 
could  help  you.  He  told  me  about  his  own 
case,  and  it  wasn't  so  different  from  mine.  He 
lived  in  Virginia  before  the  war  ;  came  from  up 
near  Lynchburg  somewhere  ;  belonged  to  an  old 
family  there,  and  had  been  in  love  with  his 
sweetheart  for  years,  but  could  never  make  any 
impression  on  her.  She  was  a  beautiful  girl,  he 
said,  and  the  greatest  belle  in  the  country  round. 
Her  father  was  one  of  the  big  lawyers  there,  and 
had  a  fine  old  place,  and  the  stable  was  always 
full  of  horses  of  the  young  fellows  who  used  to  be 
161 


How  tbe  Captain  Made  Christmas 

coming  to  see  her,  and  '  she  used  to  make  me 
sick,  I  tell  you,'  he  said,  '  I  used  to  hate  'em  all ; 
I  wasn't  afraid  of  'em  ;  but  I  used  to  hate  a  man 
to  look  at  her ;  it  seemed  so  impudent  in  him  ; 
and  I'd  have  been  jealous  if  she  had  looked  at 
the  sun.  Well,  I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I'd 
have  been  ready  to  fight  'em  all  for  her,  if  that 
would  have  done  any  good,  but  it  wouldn't;  I 
didn't  have  any  right  to  get  mad  with  'em  for 
loving  her,  and  if  I  had  got  into  a  row  she'd 
have  sent  me  off  in  a  jiffy.  But  just  then  the 
war  came  on,  and  it  was  a  Godsend  to  me.  I 
went  in  first  thing.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  go 
in  and  fight  like  five  thousand  furies,  and  I 
thought  maybe  that  would  win  her,  and  it  did  ; 
it  worked  first-rate.  I  went  in  as  a  private, 
and  I  got  a  bullet  through  me  in  about  six 
months,  through  my  right  lung,  that  laid  me  off 
for  a  year  or  so  ;  then  I  went  back  and  the  boys 
made  me  a  lieutenant,  and  when  the  captain 
was  made  a  major,  I  was  made  captain.  I  was 
offered  something  higher  once  or  twice,  but  I 
thought  I'd  rather  stay  with  my  company  ;  I 
knew  the  boys,  and  they  knew  me,  and  we  had 
got  sort  of  used  to  each  other — to  depending  on 
each  other,  as  it  were.  The  war  fixed  me  all 
right,  though.  When  I  went  home  that  first 
time  my  wife  had  come  right  around,  and  as 
162 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 


soon  as  I  was  well  enough  we  were  married.  I 
always  said  if  I  could  find  that  Yankee  that  shot 
me  I'd  like  to  make  him  a  present.  I  found 
out  that  the  great  trouble  with  me  had  been  that 
I  had  not  been  bold  enough ;  I  used  to  let  her 
go  her  own  way  too  much,  and  seemed  to  be 
afraid  of  her.  I  was  afraid  of  her,  too.  I  bet 
that's  your  trouble,  sir :  are  you  afraid  of  her  ?  ' 
I  told  him  I  thought  I  was.  <  Well,  sir,'  he 
said,  '  it  will  never  do  ;  you  mustn't  let  her  think 
that — never.  You  cannot  help  being  afraid  of 
her,  for  every  man  is  that ;  but  it  is  fatal  to  let 
her  know  it.  Stand  up,  sir,  stand  up  for  your 
rights.  If  you  are  bound  to  get  down  on  your 
knees — and  every  man  feels  that  he  is — don't  do 
it ;  get  up  and  run  out  and  roll  in  the  dust  out- 
side somewhere  where  she  can't  see  you.  Why, 
sir,'  he  said,  '  it  doesn't  do  to  even  let  her  think 
she's  having  her  own  way  ;  half  the  time  she's 
only  testing  you,  and  she  doesn't  really  want 
what  she  pretends  to  want.  Of  course,  I'm 
speaking  of  before  marriage  ;  after  marriage  she 
always  wants  it,  and  she's  going  to  have  it, 
anyway,  and  the  sooner  you  find  that  out  and 
give  in,  the  better.  You  must  consider  this, 
however,  that  her  way  after  marriage  is  always 
laid  down  to  her  with  reference  to  your  good. 
She  thinks  about  you  a  great  deal  more  than  you 
163 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 

do  about  her,  and  she's  always  working  out 
something  that  is  for  your  advantage  ;  she'll  let 
you  do  some  things  as  you  wish,  just  to  make 
you  believe  you  are  having  your  own  way,  but 
she's  just  been  pretending  to  think  otherwise,  to 
make  you  feel  good.' 

' '  This  sounded  so  much  like  sense  that  I 
asked  him  how  much  a  man  ought  to  stand  from 
a  woman.  '  Stand,  sir  ?  '  he  said  ;  '  why,  every- 
thing, everything  that  does  not  take  away  his 
self-respect.'  I  said  I  believed  if  he'd  let  a 
woman  do  it  she'd  wipe  her  shoes  on  him. 
'Why,  of  course  she  will,'  he  said,  'and  why 
shouldn't  she  ?  A  man  is  not  good  enough  for 
a  good  woman  to  wipe  her  shoes  on.  But  if 
she's  the  right  sort  of  a  woman  she  won't  do  it 
in  company,  and  she  won't  let  others  do  it  at 
all;  she'll  keep  you  for  her  own  wiping.'  ' 

"There's  a  lot  of  sense  in  that,  Lesponts," 
said  one  of  his  auditors,  at  which  there  was  a 
universal  smile  of  assent.  Lesponts  said  he  had 
found  it  out,  and  proceeded. 

"  Well,  we  got  to  a  little  town  in  Virginia,  I 
forget  the  name  of  it,  where  we  had  to  stop  a 
short  time.  The  Captain  had  told  me  that  his 
home  was  not  far  from  there,  and  his  old  com- 
pany was  raised  around  there.  Quite  a  number 
of  the  old  fellows  lived  about  there  yet,  he  said, 
164 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 

and  he  saw  some  of  them  nearly  every  time  he 
passed  through,  as  they  '  kept  the  run  of  him.' 
He  did  not  know  that  he'd  (  find  any  of  them 
out  to-day,  as  it  was  Christmas,  and  they  would 
all  be  at  home,'  he  said.  As  the  train  drew  up 
I  went  out  on  the  platform,  however,  and  there 
was  quite  a  crowd  assembled.  I  was  surprised 
to  find  it  so  quiet,  for  at  other  places  through 
which  we  had  passed  they  had  been  having  high 
jinks :  firing  off  crackers  and  making  things 
lively.  Here  the  crowd  seemed  to  be  quiet  and 
solemn,  and  I  heard  the  Captain's  name.  Just 
then  he  came  out  on  the  platform,  and  someone 
called  out  :  '  There  he  is,  now !  '  and  in  a 
second  such  a  cheer  went  up  as  you  never  heard. 
They  crowded  around  the  old  fellow  and  shook 
hands  with  him  and  hugged  him  as  if  he  had 
been  a  girl." 

11 1  suppose  you  have  reference  to  the  time 
before  you  were  married,"  interrupted  someone, 
but  Lesponts  did  not  heed  him.  He  went  on  : 

"  It  seemed  the  rumor  had  got  out  that  morn- 
ing that  it  was  the  Captain's  train  that  had  gone 
off  the  track  and  that  the  Captain  liad  been 
killed  in  the  wreck,  and  this  crowd  had  assem- 
bled to  meet  the  body.  '  We  were  going  to 
give  you  a  big  funeral,  Captain,'  said  one  old 
fellow  ;  *  they've  got  you  while  you  are  living, 
165 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 


but  we  claim  you  when  you  are  dead.  We  ain't 
going  to  let  'em  have  you  then.  We're  going 
to  put  you  to  sleep  in  old  Virginia.' 

"  The  old  fellow  was  much  affected,  and  made 
them  a  little  speech.  He  introduced  us  to  them 
all.  He  said  :  '  Gentlemen,  these  are  my  boys, 
my  neighbors  and  family  ;  '  and  then,  '  Boys, 
these  are  my  friends  ;  I  don't  know  all  their 
names  yet,  but  they  are  my  friends.'  And  we 
were.  He  rushed  off  to  send  a  telegram  to  his 
wife  in  New  Orleans,  because,  as  he  said  after- 
wards, she,  too,  might  get  hold  of  the  report 
that  he  had  been  killed  ;  and  a  Christmas  mes- 
sage would  set  her  up,  anyhow.  She'd  be  a 
little  low  down  at  his  not  getting  there,  he  said, 
as  he  had  never  missed  a  Christmas-day  at  home 
since  '64. 

"  When  dinner-time  came  he  was  invited  in 
by  pretty  nearly  everyone  in  the  car,  but  he 
declined  ;  he  said  he  had  to  attend  to  a  matter. 
I  was  going  in  with  a  party,  but  I  thought  the 
old  fellow  would  be  lonely,  so  I  waited  and  in- 
sisted on  his  dining  with  me.  I  found  that  it 
had  occurred  to  him  that  a  bowl  of  eggnogg 
would  make  it  seem  more  like  Christmas,  and 
he  had  telegraphed  ahead  to  a  friend  at  a  little 
place  to  have  '  the  materials  '  ready.  Well, 
they  were  on  hand  when  we  got  there,  and 
1 66 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 

we  took  them  aboard,  and  the  old  fellow  made 
one  of  the  finest  eggnoggs  you  ever  tasted  in 
your  life.  The  rest  of  the  passengers  had  no 
idea  of  what  was  going  on,  and  when  the  old 
chap  came  in  with  a  big  bowl,  wreathed  in 
holly,  borne  by  Nick,  and  the  old  Captain 
marching  behind,  there  was  quite  a  cheer.  It 
was  offered  to  the  ladies  first,  of  course,  and 
then  the  men  assembled  in  the  smoker  and  the 
Captain  did  the  honors.  He  did  them  hand- 
somely, too  :  made  us  one  of  the  prettiest  little 
speeches  you  ever  heard  ;  said  that  Christmas 
was  not  dependent  on  the  fireplace,  however 
much  a  roaring  fire  might  contribute  to  it ;  that 
it  was  in  everyone's  heart  and  might  be  en- 
joyed as  well  in  a  railway-car  as  in  a  hall,  and 
that  in  this  time  of  change  and  movement  it 
behooved  us  all  to  try  and  keep  up  what  was 
good  and  cheerful  and  bound  us  together,  and 
to  remember  that  Christmas  was  not  only  a 
time  for  merry-making,  but  was  the  time  when 
the  Saviour  of  the  world  came  among  men  to 
bring  peace  and  good-will,  and  that  we  should 
remember  all  our  friends  everywhere.  <  And, 
gentlemen,'  he  said,  '  there  are  two  toasts  I  al- 
ways like  to  propose  at  this  time,  and  which  I 
will  ask  you  to  drink.  The  first  is  to  my  wife.' 
It  was  drunk,  you  may  believe.  And  the  sec- 

167 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 

ond  is,  '  My  friends  :  all  mankind.'  This  too, 
was  drunk,  and  just  then  someone  noticed  that 
the  old  fellow  had  nothing  but  a  little  water  in 
his  glass.  'Why,  Captain,'  he  said,  'you  are 
not  drinking!  that  is  not  fair.'  'Well,  no, 
sir,'  said  the  old  fellow,  '  I  never  drink  any- 
thing on  duty  ;  you  see  it  is  one  of  the  regula- 
tions and  I  subscribed  them,  and,  of  course,  I 
could  not  break  my  word.  Nick,  there,  will 
drink  my  share,  however,  when  you  are  through  ; 
he  isn't  held  up  to  quite  such  high  accountabil- 
ity. '  And  sure  enough,  Nick  drained  off  a  glass 
and  made  a  speech  which  got  him  a  handful  of 
quarters.  Well,  of  course,  the  old  Captain 
owned  not  only  the  car,  but  all  in  it  by  this 
time,  and  we  spent  one  of  the  jolliest  evenings 
you  ever  saw.  The  glum  fellow  who  had  in- 
sisted on  his  rights  at  Washington  made  a  little 
speech,  and  paid  the  Captain  one  of  the  pret- 
tiest compliments  I  ever  heard.  He  said  he  had 
discovered  that  the  Captain  had  given  him  his 
own  lower  berth  after  he  had  been  so  rude  to 
him,  and  that  instead  of  taking  his  upper  berth 
as  he  had  supposed  he  would  have  done,  he  had 
given  that  to  another  person  and  had  sat  up 
himself  all  night.  That  was  I.  The  old  fellow 
had  given  the  grumbler  his  '  lower '  in  the  smok- 
ing-room, and  had  given  me  his  '  upper. '  The 
168 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 

fellow  made  him  a  very  handsome  apology  be- 
fore us  all,  and  the  Captain  had  his  own  berth 
that  night,  you  may  believe. 

"  Well,  we  were  all  on  the  quivive  to  see  the 
Captain's  wife  when  we  got  to  New  Orleans. 
The  Captain  had  told  us  that  she  always  came 
down  to  the  station  to  meet  him ;  so  we  were 
all  on  the  lookout  for  her.  He  told  me  the 
first  thing  that  he  did  was  to  kiss  her,  and  then 
he  went  and  filed  his  reports,  and  then  they 
went  home  together,  <  And  if  you'll  come  and 
dine  with  me,'  he  said  to  me,  '  I'll  give  you  the 
best  dinner  you  ever  had  —  real  old  Virginia 
cooking;  Nick's  wife  is  our  only  servant,  and 
she  is  an  excellent  cook.'  I  promised  him  to 
go  one  day,  though  I  could  not  go  the  first  day. 
Well,  the  meeting  between  the  old  fellow  and 
his  wife  was  worth  the  trip  to  New  Orleans  to 
see.  I  had  formed  a  picture  in  my  mind  of 
a  queenly  looking  woman,  a  Southern  matron— 
you  know  how  you  do  ?  And  when  we  drew 
into  the  station  I  looked  around  for  her.  As  I 
did  not  see  her,  I  watched  the  Captain.  He 
got  off,  and  I  missed  him  in  the  crowd.  Pres- 
ently, though,  I  saw  him  and  I  asked  him, 
'  Captain,  is  she  here?  '  '  Yes,  sir,  she  is,  she 
never  misses  ;  that's  the  sort  of  a  wife  to  have, 
sir;  come  here  and  let  me  introduce  you." 
169 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 

He  pulled  me  up  and  introduced  me  to  a  sweet 
little  old  lady,  in  an  old,  threadbare  dress  and 
wrap,  and  a  little,  faded  bonnet,  whom  I  had 
.seen  as  we  came  up,  watching  eagerly  for  some- 
one, but  whom  I  had  not  thought  of  as  being 
possibly  the  Captain's  grand-dame.  The  Cap- 
tain's manner,  however,  was  beautiful.  <  My 
dear,  this  is  my  friend,  Mr.  Lesponts,  and  he 
has  promised  to  come  and  dine  with  us,'  he 
said,  with  the  air  of  a  lord,  and  then  he  leaned 
over  and  whispered  something  to  her.  «  Why, 
she's  coming  to  dine  with  us  to-day,'  she  said 
with  a  very  cheery  laugh  ;  and  then  she  turned 
and  gave  me  a  look  that  swept  me  from  top  to 
toe,  as  if  she  were  weighing  me  to  see  if  I'd  do. 
I  seemed  to  pass,  for  she  came  forward  and 
greeted  me  with  a  charming  cordiality,  and  in- 
vited me  to  dine  with  them,  saying  that  her 
husband  had  told  her  I  knew  Miss  So-and-So, 
and  she  was  coming  that  day,  and  if  I  had  no 
other  engagement  they  would  be  very  glad  if  I 
would  come  that  day,  too.  Then  she  turned 
to  the  Captain  and  said,  '  I  saved  Christinas 
dinner  for  you;  for  when  you  didn't  come  I 
knew  the  calendar  and  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
were  wrong  ;  so  to-day  is  our  Christmas.'' 

—"  Well,  that's  all,"  said  Lesponts  ;   "  I  did 
not  mean  to  talk  so  much,  but  the  old  Captain 
170 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 

is  such  a  character,  I  wish  you  could  know 
him.  You'd  better  believe  I  went,  and  I 
never  had  a  nicer  time.  They  were  just  as 
poor  as  they  could  be,  in  one  way,  but  in 
another  they  were  rich.  He  had  a  sweet  little 
home  in  their  three  rooms.  I  found  that  my 
friend  always  dined  with  them  one  day  in  the 
Christmas-week,  and  I  happened  to  hit  that 
day."  He  leaned  back. 

"That  was  the  beginning  of  my  good  fort- 
une," he  said,  slowly,  and  then  stopped. 
Most  of  the  party  knew  Lespont's  charming 
wife,  so  no  further  explanation  was  needed. 
One  of  them  said  presently,  however,  "  Les- 
ponts,  why  didn't  you  fellows  get  him  some 
better  place  ? ' ' 

"  He  was  offered  a  place,"  said  Lesponts. 
"  The  fellow  who  had  made  the  row  about  the 
lower  berth  turned  out  to  be  a  great  friend  of 
the  head  of  the  Pullman  Company,  and  he  got 
him  the  offer  of  a  place  at  three  times  the  salary 
he  got,  but  after  consideration,  he  declined  it. 
He  would  have  had  to  come  North,  and  he  said 
that  he  could  not  do  that :  his  wife's  health 
was  not  very  robust  and  he  did  not  know  how 
she  could  stand  the  cold  climate  ;  then,  she 
had  made  her  friends,  and  she,  was  too  old  to 
try  to  make  a  new  set ;  and  finally,  their  little 

171 


How  the  Captain  Made  Christmas 

girl  was  buried  there,  and  they  did  not  want  to 
leave  her ;  so  he  declined.  When  she  died,  he 
said,  or  whichever  one  of  them  died  first,  the 
other  would  come  back  home  to  the  old  place 
in  Virginia,  and  bring  the  other  two  with  him, 
so  they  could  all  be  at  home  together  again. 
Meantime,  they  were  very  comfortable  and  well 
satisfied." 

There  was  a  pause  after  Lesponts  ended,  and 
then  one  of  the  fellows  rang  the  bell  and  said, 
"  Let's  drink  the  old  Captain's  health,"  which 
was  unanimously  agreed  to.  Newton  walked 
over  to  a  table  and  wrote  a  note,  and  then 
slipped  out  of  the  club  ;  and  when  next  day  I 
inquired  after  him  of  the  boy  at  the  door,  he 
said  he  had  left  word  to  tell  anyone  who  asked 
for  him,  that  he  would  not  be  back  till  after 
Christmas  ;  that  he  had  gone  home  to  Virginia. 
Several  of  the  other  fellows  went  off  home  too, 
myself  among  them,  and  I  was  glad  I  did,  for 
I  heard  one  of  the  men  say  he  never  knew  the 
club  so  deserted  as  it  was  that  Christmas-day. 


172 


Little  Darby 


LITTLE   DARBY 


THE  County  had  been  settled  as  a  "  fron- 
tier "  in  early  colonial  days,  and  when 
it  ceased  to  be  frontier,  settlement  had  taken  a 
jump  beyond  it,  and  in  a  certain  sense  over  it, 
to  the  richer  lands  of  the  Piedmont.  When, 
later  on,  steam  came,  the  railway  simply  cut 
across  it  at  its  narrowest  part,  and  then  skirted 
along  just  inside  its  border  on  the  bank  of  the 
little  river  which  bounded  it  on  the  north,  as  if 
it  intentionally  left  it  to  one  side.  Thus,  mod- 
ern progress  had  not  greatly  interfered  with  it 
either  for  good  or  bad,  and  its  development 
was  entirely  natural. 

It  was  divided  into  "  neighborhoods,"  a 
name  in  itself  implying  something  both  of  its 
age  and  origin  ;  for  the  population  was  old,  and 
the  customs  of  life  and  speech  were  old  like- 
wise. 

This  chronicle,  however,  is  not  of  the  "  neigh- 
borhoods," for  they  were  known,  or  may  be 


Little  Darby 


known  by  any  who  will  take  the  trouble  to 
plunge  boldly  in  and  throw  themselves  on  the 
hospitality  of  any  of  the  dwellers  therein.  It  is 
rather  of  the  unknown  tract,  which  lay  vague  and 
undefined  in  between  the  several  neighborhoods 
of  the  upper  end.  The  history  of  the  former  is 
known  both  in  peace  and  in  war :  in  the  pleas- 
ant homesteads  which  lie  on  the  hills  above 
the  little  rivers  which  make  down  through  the 
county  to  join  the  great  river  below,  and  in 
the  long  list  of  those  who  fell  in  battle,  and 
whose  names  are  recorded  on  the  slabs  set  up 
by  their  comrades  on  the  walls  of  the  old  Court 
House.  The  history  of  the  latter,  however,  is 
unrecorded.  The  lands  were  in  the  main  very 
poor  and  grown  up  in  pine,  or  else,  where  the 
head  -  waters  of  a  little  stream  made  down  in 
a  number  of  '  *  branches, ' '  were  swampy  and 
malarial.  Possibly  it  was  this  poverty  of  the 
soil  or  unwholesomeness  of  their  location,  which 
more  than  anything  else  kept  the  people  of  this 
district  somewhat  distinct  from  others  around 
them,  however  poor  they  might  be.  They  dwelt 
in  their  little  cabins  among  their  pines,  or  down 
on  the  edges  of  the  swampy  district,  distinct 
both  from  the  gentlemen  on  their  old  planta- 
tions and  from  the  sturdy  farmer-folk  who  owned 
the  smaller  places.  What  title  they  had  to 
176 


Little  Darby 


their  lands  originally,  or  how  they  traced  it 
back,  or  where  they  had  come  from,  no  one 
knew.  They  had  been  there  from  time  im- 
memorial, as  long  or  longer,  if  anything,  than 
the  owners  of  the  plantations  about  them  ;  and 
insignificant  as  they  were,  they  were  not  the 
kind  to  attempt  to  question,  even  had  anyone 
been  inclined  to  do  so,  which  no  one  was. 

They  had  the  names  of  the  old  English  gen- 
try, and  were  a  clean-limbed,  blond,  blue-eyed 
people. 

When  they  were  growing  to  middle  age,  their 
life  told  on  them  and  made  them  weather-beaten, 
and  not  infrequently  hard-visaged  ;  but  when 
they  were  young  there  were  often  among  them 
straight,  supple  young  fellows  with  clear-cut 
features,  and  lithe,  willowy-looking  girls,  with 
pink  faces  and  blue,  or  brown,  or  hazel  eyes, 
and  a  mien  which  one  might  have  expected  to 
find  in  a  hall  rather  than  in  a  cabin. 

Darby  Stanley  and  Cove  Mills  (short  for 
Coverley)  were  the  leaders  of  the  rival  factions 
of  the  district.  They  lived  as  their  fathers  had 
lived  before  them,  on  opposite  sides  of  the  lit- 
tle stream,  the  branches  of  which  crept  through 
the  alder  and  gum  thickets  between  them,  and 
contributed  to  make  the  district  almost  as  im- 
penetrable to  the  uninitiated  as  a  mountain 
177 


Little  Darby 


fastness.  The  long  log-cabin  of  the  Cove- 
Mi  Uses,  where  room  had  been  added  to  room 
in  a  straight  line,  until  it  looked  like  the  side 
of  a  log  fort,  peeped  from  its  pines  across  at 
the  clearing  where  the  hardly  more  pretentious 
home  of  Darby  Stanley  was  set  back  amid  a 
little  orchard  of  ragged  peach-trees,  and  half 
hidden  under  a  great  wistaria  vine.  But  though 
the  two  places  lay  within  rifle  shot  of  each 
other,  they  were  almost  as  completely  divided 
as  if  the  big  river  below  had  rolled  between 
them.  Since  the  great  fight  between  old  Dar- 
by and  Cove  Mills  over  Henry  Clay,  there  had 
rarely  been  an  election  in  which  some  members 
of  the  two  families  had  not  had  a  < '  clinch. ' ' 
They  had  to  be  thrown  together  sometimes  '  <  at 
meeting,"  and  their  children  now  and  then 
met  down  on  the  river  fishing,  or  at  "the 
washing  hole,"  as  the  deep  place  in  the  little 
stream  below  where  the  branches  ran  together, 
was  called ;  but  they  held  themselves  as  much 
aloof  from  each  other  as  their  higher  neighbors, 
the  Hampdens  and  the  Douwills,  did  on  their 
plantations.  The  children,  of  course,  would 
"  run  together,"  nor  did  the  parents  take  steps 
to  prevent  them,  sure  that  they  would,  as  they 
grew  up,  take  their  own  sides  as  naturally  as 
they  themselves  had  done  in  their  day.  Mean- 
178 


Little  Darby 


time  "children  were  children,"  and  they  need 
not  be  worried  with  things  like  grown-up  folk. 

When  Aaron  Hall  died  and  left  his  little 
farm  and  all  his  small  belongings  to  educate 
free  the  children  of  his  poor  neighbors,  the 
farmers  about  availed  themselves  of  his  benefac- 
tion, and  the  children  for  six  miles  around  used 
to  attend  the  little  school  which  was  started  in 
the  large  hewn-log  school-house  on  the  roadside 
known  as  "  Hall's  Free  School."  Few  people 
knew  the  plain,  homely,  hard-working  man,  or 
wholly  understood  him.  Some  thought  him 
stingy,  some  weak-minded,  some  only  queer, 
and  at  first  his  benefaction  was  hardly  compre- 
hended ;  but  in  time  quite  a  little  oasis  began 
about  the  little  fountain,  which  the  poor  farm- 
er's bequest  had  opened  under  the  big  oaks  by 
the  wayside,  and  gradually  its  borders  extended, 
until  finally  it  penetrated  as  far  as  the  district, 
and  Cove  Mills's  children  appeared  one  morn- 
ing at  the  door  of  the  little  school-house,  and, 
with  sheepish  faces  and  timid  voices,  informed 
the  teacher  that  their  father  had  sent  them  to 
school. 

At  first  there  was  some  debate  over  at  Darby 

Stanley's  place,  whether  they  should  show  their 

contempt  for  the  new  departure  of  the  Mi  Uses, 

by  standing  out  against  them,  or  should  follow 

179 


Little  Darby 


their  example.  It  was  hard  for  a  Stanley  to 
have  to  follow  a  Mills  in  anything.  So  they 
stood  out  for  a  year.  As  it  seemed,  however, 
that  the  Millses  were  getting  something  to 
which  the  Stanleys  were  as  much  entitled  as 
they,  one  morning  little  Darby  Stanley  walked 
in  at  the  door,  and  without  taking  his  hat  off, 
announced  that  he  had  come  to  go  to  school. 
He  was  about  fifteen  at  the  time,  but  he  must 
have  been  nearly  six  feet  (his  sobriquet  being 
wholly  due  to  the  fact  that  Big  Darby  was 
older,  not  taller),  and  though  he  was  spare, 
there  was  something  about  his  face  as  he  stood 
in  the  open  door,  or  his  eye  as  it  rested  de- 
fiantly on  the  teacher's  face,  which  prevented 
more  than  a  general  buzz  of  surprise. 

"  Take  off  your  hat,"  said  the  teacher,  and  he 
took  it  off  slowly.  ' '  I  suppose  you  can  read  ?  ' ' 
was  the  first  question. 

"No.11 

A  snicker  ran  round  the  room,  and  little 
Darby's  brow  clouded. 

As  he  not  only  could  not  read,  but  could  not 
even  spell,  and  in  fact  did  not  know  his  letters, 
he  was  put  into  the  alphabet  class,  the  class  of 
the  smallest  children  in  the  school. 

Little  Darby  walked  over  to  the  corner  indi- 
cated with  his  head  up,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
1 80 


Little  Darby 


and  a  roll  in  his  gait  full  of  defiance,  and  took 
his  seat  on  the  end  of  the  bench  and  looked 
straight  before  him.  He  could  hear  the  titter 
around  him,  and  a  lowering  look  came  into 
his  blue  eyes.  He  glanced  sideways  down  the 
bench  opposite.  It  happened  that  the  next  seat 
to  his  was  that  of  Vashti  Mills,  who  was  at  that 
time  just  nine.  She  was  not  laughing,  but  was 
looking  at  Darby  earnestly,  and  as  he  caught  her 
eye  she  nodded  to  him,  "  Good-mornin'."  It 
was  the  first  greeting  the  boy  had  received,  and 
though  he  returned  it  sullenly,  it  warmed  him, 
and  the  cloud  passed  from  his  brow  and  pres- 
ently he  looked  at  her  again.  She  handed  him 
a  book.  He  took  it  and  looked  at  it  as  if  it 
were  something  that  might  explode. 

He  was  not  an  apt  scholar ;  perhaps  he  had 
begun  too  late ;  perhaps  there  was  some  other 
cause ;  but  though  he  could  swim  better,  climb 
better,  and  run  faster  than  any  boy  in  the  school, 
or,  for  that  matter,  in  the  county,  and  knew 
the  habits  of  every  bird  that  flitted  through  the 
woods  and  of  every  animal  that  lived  in  the  dis- 
trict, he  was  not  good  at  his  books.  His  mind 
was  on  other  things.  When  he  had  spent  a 
week  over  the  alphabet,  he  did  know  a  letter  as 
such,  but  only  by  the  places  on  the  page  they 
were  on,  and  gave  up  when  "  big  A  "  was  shown 
181 


Little  Darby 


him  on  another  page,  only  asking  how  in  the 
dickens  "big  A"  got  over  there.  He  pulled 
off  his  coat  silently  whenever  ordered  and  took 
his  whippings  like  a  lamb,  without  a  murmur 
and  almost  without  flinching,  but  every  boy  in 
the  school  learned  that  it  was  dangerous  to  laugh 
at  him  ;  and  though  he  could  not  learn  to  read 
fluently  or  to  train  his  fingers  to  guide  a  pen, 
he  could  climb  the  tallest  pine  in  the  district  to 
get  a  young  crow  for  Vashti,  and  could  fashion 
all  sorts  of  curious  whistles,  snares,  and  other 
contrivances  with  his  long  fingers. 

He  did  not  court  popularity,  was  rather  cold 
and  unapproachable,  and  Vashti  Mills  was  about 
the  only  other  scholar  with  whom  he  seemed  to 
be  on  warm  terms.  Many  a  time  when  the  tall 
boy  stood  up  before  the  thin  teacher,  helpless 
and  dumb  over  some  question  which  almost  any- 
one in  the  school  could  answer,  the  little  girl, 
twisting  her  fingers  in  an  ecstacy  of  anxiety, 
whispered  to  him  the  answer  in  the  face  of  almost 
certain  detection  and  of  absolutely  certain  pun- 
ishment. In  return,  he  worshipped  the  ground 
she  walked  on,  and  whichever  side  Vashti  was 
on,  Darby  was  sure  to  be  on  it  too.  He  climbed 
the  tallest  trees  to  get  her  nuts ;  waded  into  the 
miriest  swamps  to  find  her  more  brilliant  nose- 
gays of  flowers  than  the  other  girls  had ;  spent 
182 


Little  Darby 


hours  to  gather  rarer  birds'  eggs  than  they  had, 
and  was  everywhere  and  always  her  silent  wor- 
shipper and  faithful  champion.  They  soon 
learned  that  the  way  to  secure  his  help  in  any- 
thing was  to  get  Vashti  Mills  to  ask  it,  and  the 
little  girl  quickly  discovered  her  power  and 
used  it  as  remorselessly  over  her  tall  slave  as 
any  other  despot  ever  did.  They  were  to  be 
seen  any  day  trailing  along  the  plantation  paths 
which  the  school -children  took  from  the  dis- 
trict, the  others  in  a  clump,  and  the  tall  boy 
and  little  calico-clad  girl,  who  seemed  in  sum- 
mer mainly  sun-bonnet  and  bare  legs,  either 
following  or  going  before  the  others  at  some 
distance. 

The  death  of  Darby — of  old  Darby,  as  he 
had  begun  to  be  called — cut  off  Little  Darby 
from  his  "schoolin',"  in  the  middle  of  his 
third  year,  and  before  he  had  learned  more 
than  to  read  and  cipher  a  little  and  to  write  in 
a  scrawly  fashion  ;  for  he  had  been  rather  irreg- 
ular in  his  attendance  at  all  times.  He  now 
stopped  altogether,  giving  the  teacher  as  his 
reason,  with  characteristic  brevity:  "Got  to 
work." 

Perhaps  no  one  at  the  school  mourned  the 
long-legged  boy's  departure  except  his  little 
friend  Vashti,  now  a  well-grown  girl  of  twelve, 

183 


Little  Darby 


very  straight  and  slim  and  with  big  dark  eyes. 
She  gave  him  when  he  went  away  the  little 
Testament  she  had  gotten  as  a  prize,  and  which 
was  one  of  her  most  cherished  possessions. 
Other  boys  found  the  first  honor  as  climber,  run- 
ner, rock-flinger,  wrestler,  swimmer,  and  fighter 
open  once  more  to  them,  and  were  free  from 
the  silent  and  somewhat  contemptuous  gaze  of 
him  who,  however  they  looked  down  on  him, 
was  a  sort  of  silent  power  among  them.  Vashti 
alone  felt  a  void  and  found  by  its  sudden 
absence  how  great  a  force  was  the  steady  back- 
ing of  one  who  could  always  be  counted  on  to 
take  one's  side  without  question.  She  had  to 
bear  the  gibes  of  the  school  as  "  Miss  Darby," 
and  though  her  two  brothers  were  ready 
enough  to  fight  for  her  if  boys  pushed  her  too 
hardly,  they  could  do  nothing  against  girls,  and 
the  girls  were  her  worst  tormentors. 

The  name  was  fastened  on  her,  and  it  clung 
to  her  until,  as  time  went  on,  she  came  to  al- 
most hate  the  poor  innocent  cause  of  it. 

Meantime  Darby,  beginning  to  fill  out  and 
take  on  the  shoulders  and  form  of  a  man,  began 
to  fill  also  the  place  of  the  man  in  his  little 
home.  This  among  other  things  meant  opposi- 
tion, if  not  hostility,  to  everything  on  Cove 
Mills' s  side.  When  old  Darby  died  the  Millses 
184. 


Little  Darby 


all  went  to  the  funeral,  of  course ;  but  that  did 
not  prevent  their  having  the  same  feeling  toward 
Little  Darby  afterward,  and  the  breach  con- 
tinued. 

At  first  he  used  to  go  over  occasionally  to  see 
Vashti  and  carry  her  little  presents,  as  he  had 
done  at  school ;  but  he  soon  found  that  it  was 
not  the  same  thing.  He  was  always  received 
coolly,  and  shortly  he  was  given  to  understand 
that  he  was  not  wanted  there,  and  in  time 
Vashti  herself  showed  that  she  was  not  the  same 
she  had  been  to  him  before.  Thus  the  young 
fellow  was  thrown  back  on  himself,  and  the  hos- 
tility between  the  two  cabins  was  as  great  as 
ever. 

He  spent  much  of  his  time  in  the  woods,  for 
the  Stanley  place  was  small  at  best,  only  a  score 
or  so  of  acres,  and  mostly  covered  with  pines, 
and  Little  Darby  was  but  a  poor  hand  at  work- 
ing with  a  hoe  —  their  only  farm  implement. 
He  was,  however,  an  unerring  shot,  with  an 
eye  like  a  hawk  to  find  a  squirrel  flat  on  top  of 
the  grayest  limb  of  the  tallest  hickory  in  the 
woods,  or  a  hare  in  her  bed  among  the  brownest 
broomsedge  in  the  county,  and  he  knew  the 
habits  of  fish  and  bird  and  animal  as  if  he  had 
created  them ;  and  though  he  could  not  or 
would  not  handle  a  hoe,  he  was  the  best  hand 
185 


Little  Darby 


at  an  axe  "  in  the  stump,"  in  the  district,  and 
Mrs.  Stanley  was  kept  in  game  if  not  in  meal. 

The  Mi  Uses  dilated  on  his  worthlessness,  and 
Vashti,  grown  to  be  a  slender  slip  of  a  girl  with 
very  bright  eyes  and  a  little  nose,  was  loudest 
against  him  in  public  ;  though  rumor  said  she 
had  fallen  afoul  of  her  youngest  brother  and 
boxed  his  jaws  for  seconding  something  she  had 
said  of  him. 

The  Mills's  enmity  was  well  understood,  and 
there  were  not  wanting  those  to  take  Darby's 
side.  He  had  grown  to  be  the  likeliest  young 
man  in  the  district,  tall,  and  straight  as  a  sap- 
ling, and  though  Vashti  flaunted  her  hate  of 
him  and  turned  up  her  little  nose  more  than  it 
was  already  turned  up  at  his  name,  there  were 
many  other  girls  in  the  pines  who  looked  at 
him  languishingly  from  under  their  long  sun- 
bonnets,  and  thought  he  was  worth  both  the 
Mills  boys  and  Vashti  to  boot.  So  when  at  a 
fish-fry  the  two  Mills  boys  attacked  him  and 
he  whipped  them  both  together,  some  said  it 
served  them  right,  while  others  declared  they 
did  just  what  they  ought  to  have  done,  and  in- 
timated that  Darby  was  less  anxious  to  meet 
their  father  than  he  was  them,  who  were  noth- 
ing more  than  boys  to  him.  These  asked  in 
proof  of  their  view,  why  he  had  declined  to 
1 86 


Little  Darby 


fight  when  Old  Cove  had  abused  him  so  to  his 
face.  This  was  met  by  the  fact  that  he  "  could 
not  have  been  so  mighty  afeared,"  for  he  had 
jumped  in  and  saved  Chris.  Mills's  life  ten  min- 
utes afterward,  when  he  got  beyond  his  depth 
in  the  pond  and  had  already  sunk  twice.  But, 
then,  to  be  sure,  it  had  to  be  admitted  that  he 
was  the  best  swimmer  on  the  ground,  and  that 
any  man  there  would  have  gone  in  to  save  his 
worst  enemy  if  he  had  been  drowning.  This 
must  have  been  the  view  that  Vashti  Mills  took 
of  the  case ;  for  one  day  not  long  afterward, 
having  met  Darby  at  the  cross-roads  store 
where  she  was  looking  at  some  pink  calico,  and 
where  he  had  come  to  get  some  duck -shot  and 
waterproof  caps,  she  turned  on  him  publicly, 
and  with  flashing  eyes  and  mantling  cheeks, 
gave  him  to  understand  that  if  she  were  a  man 
he  "  would  not  have  had  to  fight  two  boys,"  and 
he  would  not  have  come  off  so  well  either.  If 
anything,  this  attack  brought  Darby  friends,  for 
he  not  only  had  whipped  the  Mills  boys  fairly, 
and  had  fought  only  when  they  had  pressed 
him,  but  had,  as  has  been  said,  declined  to 
fight  old  man  Mills  under  gross  provocation  ; 
and  besides,  though  they  were  younger  than 
he,  the  Mills  boys  were  seventeen  and  eighteen, 
and  "  not  such  babies  either;  if  they  insisted 

187 


Little  Darby 


on  fighting  they  had  to  take  what  they  got  and 
not  send  their  sister  to  talk  and  abuse  a  man 
about  it  afterward."  And  the  weight  of  opin- 
ion was  that,  "that  Vashti  Mills  was  gettin' 
too  airified  and  set  up  anyways." 

All  this  reached  Mrs.  Stanley,  and  was  no 
doubt  sweet  to  her  ears.  She  related  it  in  her« 
drawling  voice  to  Darby  as  he  sat  in  the  door 
one  evening,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  have  much 
effect  on  him  ;  he  never  stirred  or  showed  by 
word  or  sign  that  he  even  heard  her,  and  fin- 
ally, without  speaking,  he  rose  and  lounged 
away  into  the  woods.  The  old  woman  gazed 
after  him  silently  until  he  disappeared,  and  then 
gave  a  look  across  to  where  the  Mills  cabin 
peeped  from  among  the  pines,  which  was  full 
of  hate. 

The  fish-fry  at  which  Darby  Stanley  had  first 
fought  the  Mills  boys  and  then  pulled  one  of 
them  out  of  the  river,  had  been  given  by  one 
of  the  county  candidates  for  election  as  dele- 
gate to  a  convention  which  was  to  be  held 
at  the  capital,  and  possibly  the  division  of 
sentiment  in  the  district  between  the  Millses 
and  Little  Darby  was  as  much  due  to  political 
as  to  personal  feeling  ;  for  the  sides  were  grow- 
ing more  and  more  tightly  drawn,  and  the 
1 88 


Little  Darby 


Millses,  as  usual,  were  on  one  side  and  Little 
Darby  on  the  other ;  and  both  sides  had  strong 
adherents.  The  question  was  on  one  side,  Se- 
cession, with  probable  war  ;  and  on  the  other, 
the  Union  as  it  was.  The  Millses  were  for  the 
candidate  who  advocated  the  latter,  and  Lit- 
tle Darby  was  for  him  who  wanted  secession. 
Both  candidates  were  men  of  position  and  pop- 
ularity, the  one  a  young  man  and  the  other 
older,  and  both  were  neighbors. 

The  older  man  was  elected,  and  shortly  the 
question  became  imminent,  and  all  the  talk 
about  the  Cross-roads  was  of  war.  As  time  had 
worn  on,  Little  Darby,  always  silent,  had  be- 
come more  and  more  so,  and  seemed  to  be 
growing  morose.  He  spent  more  and  more  of 
his  time  in  the  woods  or  about  the  Cross-roads, 
the  only  store  and  post-office  near  the  district 
where  the  little  tides  of  the  quiet  life  around 
used  to  meet.  At  length  Mrs.  Stanley  consid- 
ered it  so  serious  that  she  took  it  upon  herself 
to  go  over  and  talk  to  her  neighbor,  Mrs.  Dou- 
will,  as  she  generally  did  on  matters  too  in- 
tricate and  grave  for  the  experience  of  the  dis- 
trict. She  found  Mrs.  Douwill,  as  always, 
sympathetic  and  kind,  and  though  she  took 
back  with  her  not  much  enlightenment  as  to 
the  cause  of  her  son's  trouble  or  its  cure,  she 
189 


Little  Darby 


went  home  in  a  measure  comforted  with  the  as- 
surance of  the  sympathy  of  one  stronger  than 
she.  She  had  found  out  that  her  neighbor, 
powerful  and  rich  as  she  seemed  to  her  to  be, 
had  her  own  troubles  and  sorrows ;  she  heard 
from  her  of  the  danger  of  war  breaking  out  at 
any  time,  and  her  husband  would  enlist  among 
the  first. 

Little  Darby  did  not  say  much  when  his 
mother  told  of  her  visit ;  but  his  usually  down- 
cast eyes  had  a  new  light  in  them,  and  he  be- 
gan to  visit  the  Cross-roads  oftener. 

At  last  one  day  the  news  that  came  to  the 
Cross-roads  was  that  there  was  to  be  war.  It 
had  been  in  the  air  for  some  time,  but  now  it  was 
undoubted.  It  came  in  the  presence  of  Mr. 
Douwill  himself,  who  had  come  the  night  be- 
fore and  was  commissioned  by  the  Governor  to 
raise  a  company.  There  were  a  number  of  people 
there — quite  a  crowd  for  the  little  Cross-roads 
— for  the  stir  had  been  growing  day  by  day, 
and  excitement  and  anxiety  were  on  the  increase. 
The  papers  had  been  full  of  secession,  firing  on 
flags,  raising  troops,  and  everything  ;  but  that 
was  far  off.  When  Mr.  Douwill  appeared  in 
person  it  came  nearer,  though  still  few,  if  any, 
quite  took  it  in  that  it  could  be  actual  and  .im- 
mediate. Among  those  at  the  Cross-roads  that 
190 


Little  Darby 


day  were  the  Millses,  father  and  sons,  who 
looked  a  little  critically  at  the  speaker  as  one 
who  had  always  been  on  the  other  side.  Little 
Darby  was  also  there,  silent  as  usual,  but  with  a 
light  burning  in  his  blue  eyes. 

That  evening,  when  Little  Darby  reached 
home,  which  he  did  somewhat  earlier  than 
usual,  he  announced  to  his  mother  that  he  had 
enlisted  as  a  soldier.  The  old  woman  was 
standing  before  her  big  fireplace  when  he  told 
her,  and  she  leaned  against  it  quite  still  for  a 
moment ;  then  she  sat  down,  stumbling  a  little 
on  the  rough  hearth  as  she  made  her  way  to  her 
little  broken  chair.  Darby  got  up  and  found 
her  a  better  one,  which  she  took  without  a 
word. 

Whatever  entered  into  her  soul  in  the  lit- 
tle cabin  that  night,  when  Mrs.  Stanley  went 
among  her  neighbors  she  was  a  soldier's  mother. 
She  even  went  over  to  Cove  Mills' s  on  some 
pretext  connected  with  Darby's  going.  Vashti 
was  not  at  home,  but  Mrs.  Mills  was,  and  she 
felt  a  sudden  loss,  as  if  somehow  the  Millses 
had  fallen  below  the  Stanleys.  She  talked  of 
it  for  several  days ;  she  could  not  make  out  en- 
tirely what  it  was.  Vashti 's  black  eyes  flashed. 

The  next  day  Darby  went  to  the  Cross-roads 
to  drill ;  there  was,  besides  the  recruits,  who 
191 


Little  Darby 


were  of  every  class,  quite  a  little  crowd  there 
to  look  at  the  drill.  Among  them  were  two 
women  of  the  poorest  class,  one  old  and  fad- 
ed, rather1  than  gray,  the  other  hardly  better 
dressed,  though  a  slim  figure,  straight  and  trim, 
gave  her  a  certain  distinction,  even  had  not  a 
few  ribbons  and  a  little  ornament  or  two  on 
her  pink  calico,  with  a  certain  air,  showed  that 
she  was  accustomed  to  being  admired. 

The  two  women  found  themselves  together 
once  during  the  day,  and  their  eyes  met.  It 
\vas  just  as  the  line  of  soldiers  passed.  Those 
of  the  elder  lighted  with  a  sudden  spark  of 
mingled  triumph  and  hate,  those  of  the  younger 
flashed  back  for  a  moment  and  then  fell  be- 
neath the  elder's  gaze.  There  was  much  en- 
thusiasm about  the  war,  and  among  others,  both 
of  the  Mills  boys  enlisted  before  the  day  was 
ended,  their  sister  going  in  with  them  to  the 
room  where  their  names  were  entered  on  the 
roll,  and  coming  out  with  flashing  eyes  and  man- 
tling cheeks.  She  left  the  place  earlier  than 
most  of  the  crowd,  but  not  until  after  the  drill 
was  over  and  some  of  the  young  soldiers  had 
gone  home.  The  Mills  boys'  enlistment  was 
set  down  in  the  district  to  Vashti,  and  some 
said  it  was  because  she  was  jealous  of  Little 
Darby  being  at  the  end  of  the  company,  with  a 
192 


Little  Darby 


new  gun  and  such  a  fine  uniform  ;  for  her  hatred 
of  Little  Darby  was  well  known ;  anyhow,  their 
example  was  followed,  and  in  a  short  time 
nearly  all  the  young  men  in  the  district  had 
enlisted. 

At  last  one  night  a  summons  came  for  the 
company  to  assemble  at  the  Cross-roads  next 
day  with  arms  and  equipment.  Orders  had 
come  for  them  to  report  at  once  at  the  capital 
of  the  State  for  drill,  before  being  sent  into  the 
field  to  repel  a  force  which,  report  said,  was 
already  on  the  way  to  invade  the  State.  There 
was  the  greatest  excitement  and  enthusiasm. 
This  was  war  !  And  everyone  was  ready  to 
meet  it.  The  day  was  given  to  taking  an  in- 
ventory of  arms  and  equipment,  and  then  there 
was  a  drill,  and  then  the  company  was  dismissed 
for  the  night,  as  many  of  them  had  families 
of  whom  they  had  not  taken  leave,  and  as  they 
had  not  come  that  day  prepared  to  leave,  and 
were  ordered  to  join  the  commander  next  day, 
prepared  to  march. 

Little  Darby  escorted  his  mother  home,  taci- 
turn as  ever.  At  first  there  was  quite  a  com- 
pany ;  but  as  they  went  their  several  ways  to 
their  home,  at  last  Little  Darby  and  his  mother 
were  left  alone  in  the  piney  path,  and  made  the 
last  part  of  their  way  alone.  Now  and  then 


Little  Darby 


the  old  woman's  eyes  were  on  him,  and  often 
his  eyes  were  on  her,  but  they  did  not  speak; 
they  just  walked  on  in  silence  till  they  reached 
home. 

It  was  but  a  poor,  little  house  even  when  the 
wistaria  vine  covered  it,  wall  and  roof,  and  the 
bees  hummed  among  its  clusters  of  violet  blos- 
soms ;  but  now  the  wistaria  bush  was  only  a 
tangle  of  twisted  wires  hung  upon  it,  and  the 
little  weather-stained  cabin  looked  bare  and  poor 
enough.  As  the  young  fellow  stood  in  the  door 
looking  out  with  the  evening  light  upon  him, 
his  tall,  straight  figure  filled  it  as  if  it  had  been 
a  frame.  He  stood  perfectly  motionless  for 
some  minutes,  gazing  across  the  gum  thickets 
before  him. 

The  sun  had  set  only  about  a  half-hour  and 
the  light  was  still  lingering  on  the  under  edges 
of  the  clouds  in  the  west  and  made  a  sort  of 
glow  in  the  little  yard  before  him,  as  it  did  in 
front  of  the  cabin  on  the  other  hill.  His  eye 
first  swept  the  well-known  horizon,  taking  in 
the  thickets  below  him  and  the  heavy  pines  on 
either  side  where  it  was  already  dusk,  and  then 
rested  on  the  little  cabin  opposite.  Whether 
he  saw  it  or  not,  one  could  hardly  have  told, 
for  his  face  wore  a  reminiscent  look.  Figures 
moved  backward  and  forward  over  there,  came 
194 


Little  Darby 


out  and  went  in,  without  his  look  changing. 
Even  Vashti,  faintly  distinguishable  in  her  gay 
dress,  came  out  and  passed  down  the  hill 
alone,  without  his  expression  changing.  It  was, 
perhaps,  fifteen  minutes  later  that  he  seemed 
to  awake,  and  after  a  look  over  his  shoulder 
stepped  from  the  door  into  the  yard.  His  moth- 
er was  cooking,  and  he  strolled  down  the  path 
across  the  little  clearing  and  entered  the  pines. 
Insensibly  his  pace  quickened — he  strode  along 
the  dusky  path  with  as  firm  a  step  as  if  it  were 
broad  daylight.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  below 
the  path  crossed  the  little  stream  and  joined  the 
path  from  Cove  Mills' s  place,  which  he  used  to 
take  when  he  went  to  school.  He  crossed  at 
the  old  log  and  turned  down  the  path  through 
the  little  clearing  there.  The  next  moment  he 
stood  face  to  face  with  Vashti  Mills.  Whether 
he  was  surprised  or  not  no  one  could  have  told, 
for  he  said  not  a  word,  and  his  face  was  in  the 
shadow,  though  Vashti 's  was  toward  the  clear- 
ing and  the  light  from  the  sky  was  on  it.  Her 
hat  was  in  her  hand.  He  stood  still,  but  did 
not  stand  aside  to  let  her  pass,  until  she  made 
an  imperious  little  gesture  and  stepped  as  if  she 
would  have  passed  around  him.  Then  he  stood 
aside.  But  she  did  not  appear  in  a  hurry  to 
avail  herself  of  the  freedom  offered,  she  sim- 

195 


Little  Darby 


ply  looked  at  him.  He  took  off  his  cap  sheep- 
ishly enough,  and  said,  "  Good-evenin'." 

"  Good-evenin',"  she  said,  and  then,  as  the 
pause  became  embarrassing,  she  said,  "  Hear 
you're  agoin'  away  to-morrer  ?  " 

"  Yes — to-morrer  mornin'." 

"When  you're  acomin'  back?"  she  asked, 
after  a  pause  in  which  she  had  been  twisting 
the  pink  string  of  her  hat. 

"  Don't  know — may  be  never."  Had  he 
been  looking  at  her  he  might  have  seen  the 
change  which  his  words  brought  to  her  face ; 
she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face  for  the  first  time 
since  the  half  defiant  glance  she  had  given  him 
when  they  met,  and  they  had  a  strange  light  in 
them,  but  at  the  moment  he  was  looking  at  a 
bow  on  her  dress  which  had  been  pulled  loose. 
He  put  out  his  hand  and  touched  it  and  said : 

"You're  a-losin'  yer  bow,"  and  as  she  found 
a  pin  and  fastened  it  again,  he  added,  "An'  I 
don'  know  as  anybody  keers." 

An  overpowering  impulse  changed  her  and 
forced  her  to  say  :  "I  don't  know  as  anybody 
does  either;  I  know  as  I  don't." 

The  look  on  his  face  smote  her,  and   the 

spark  died  out  of  her  eyes   as  he  said,  slowly : 

"  No,  I  knowed  you  didn'  !     I  don't  know  as 

anybody  does,  exceptin'  my  old  woman.     May- 

196 


Little  Darby 


be  she  will  a  little.  I  jist  wanted  to  tell  you 
that  I  wouldn't  a'  fit  them  boys  if  they  hadn't 
a'  pushed  me  so  hard,  and  I  wan't  afeared  to 
fight  your  old  man,  I  jist  wouldn't  —  that's 
all." 

What  answer  she  might  have  made  to  this 
was  prevented  by  him  ;  for  he  suddenly  held 
out  his  hand  with  something  in  it,  saying, 
"  Here." 

She  instinctively  reached  out  to  take  what- 
ever it  was,  and  he  placed  in  her  hand  a  book 
which  she  recognized  as  the  little  Testament 
which  she  had  won  as  a  prize  at  school  and  had 
given  him  when  they  went  to  school  together. 
It  was  the  only  book  she  had  ever  possessed  as 
her  very  own. 

1 '  I  brought  this  thinking  as  how  maybe  you 
might  'a' -wan ted — me  to  keep  it,"  he  was  go- 
ing to  say  ;  but  he  checked  himself  and  said  : 
"  might  'a' -wanted  it  back." 

Before  she  could  recover  from  the  surprise  of 
finding  the  book  in  her  hand  her  own,  he  was 
gone.  The  words  only  came  to  her  clearly  as 
his  retreating  footsteps  grew  fainter  and  his  tall 
figure  faded  in  the  darkening  light.  She  made 
a  hasty  step  or  two  after  him,  then  checked 
herself  and  listened  intently  to  see  if  he  were 
not  returning,  and  then,  as  only  the  katydids 
197 


Little  Darby 


answered,  threw  herself  flat  on  the  ground  and 
grovelled  in  the  darkness. 

There  were  few  houses  in  the  district  or  in 
the  county  where  lights  did  not  burn  all  that 
night.  The  gleam  of  the  fire  in  Mrs.  Stanley's 
little  house  could  be  seen  all  night  from  the 
door  of  the  Mills  cabin,  as  thj  candle  by  which 
Mrs.  Mills  complained  while  she  and  Vashti 
sewed,  could  be  faintly  seen  from  Little  Darby's 
house.  The  two  Mills  boys  slept  stretched  out 
on  the  one  bed  in  the  little  centre-room. 

While  the  women  sewed  and  talked  fitfully 
by  the  single  tallow  candle,  and  old  Cove  dozed 
in  a  chair  with  his  long  legs  stretched  out  to- 
ward the  fire  and  the  two  shining  barrels  of  his 
sons'  muskets  resting  against  his  knees,  where 
they  had  slipped  from  his  hands  when  he  had 
finished  rubbing  them. 

The  younger  woman  did  most  of  the  sewing. 
Her  fingers  were  suppler  than  her  mother's, 
and  she  scarcely  spoke  except  to  answer  the 
latter's  querulous  questions.  Presently  a  rooster 
crowed  somewhere  in  the  distance,  and  almost 
immediately  another  crowed  in  answer  closer 
at  hand. 

"  Thar's  the  second  rooster-crow,  it's  git- 
tin'  erlong  toward  the  mornin',"  said  the  elder 
woman. 

198 


Little  Darby 


The  young  girl  made  no  answer,  but  a  mo- 
ment later  rose  and,  laying  aside  the  thing  she 
was  sewing,  walked  to  the  low  door  and  stepped 
out  into  the  night.  When  she  returned  and 
picked  up  her  sewing  again,  her  mother  said  : 

"I  de-clar,  Vashti,  you  drinks  mo'  water 
than  anybody  I  ever  see. ' ' 

To  which  she  made  no  answer. 

'  *  Air  they  a-stirrin'  over  at  Mis's  Stanley's  ?  ' ' 
asked  the  mother. 

"  They  ain't  a-been  to  bed,"  said  the  girl, 
quietly ;  and  then,  as  if  a  sudden  thought  had 
struck  her,  she  hitched  her  chair  nearer  the  door 
which  she  had  left  open,  and  sat  facing  it  as 
she  sewed  on  the  brown  thing  she  was  working 
on  a  small  bow  which  she  took  from  her  dress. 

"  I  de-clar,  I  don't  see  what  old  Mis's  Stanley 
is  actually  a-gvvine  to  do,"  broke  out  Mrs. 
Mills,  suddenly,  and  when  Vashti  did  not  feel 
called  on  to  try  to  enlighten  her  she  added, 
"  Do  you  ?  " 

"Same  as  other  folks,  I  s'pose,"  said  the 
girl,  quietly. 

"  Other  folks  has  somebody — somebody  to 
take  keer  on  'em.  I've  got  your  pappy  now  ; 
but  she  ain't  got  nobody  but  little  Darby — 
and  when  he's  gone  what  will  she  do  ?  " 

For  answer  Vashti  only  hitched  her  chair  a 
199 


Little  Darby 


little  nearer  the  door  and  sewed  on  almost  in 
darkness.  "  Not  that  he  was  much  account  to 
her,  ner  to  anybody  else,  except  for  goin' 
aroun'  a-fightin'  and  a-fussin'." 

"He  was  account  to  her,"  flamed  up  the 
girl,  suddenly;  "  he  was  account  to  her,  to  her 
and  to  everybody  else.  He  was  the  fust  soldier 
that  'listed,  and  he's  account  to  everybody." 

The  old  woman  had  raised  her  head  in  aston- 
ishment at  her  daughter's  first  outbreak,  and 
was  evidently  about  to  reply  sharply ;  but  the 
girl's  flushed  face  and  flashing  eyes  awed  and 
silenced  her. 

"Well,  well,  I  ain't  sayin'  nothin'  against 
him,"  she  said,  presently. 

"  Yes,  you  air — you're  always  sayin'  some- 
thin'  against  him — and  so  is  everybody  else — 
and  they  ain't  fitten  to  tie  his  shoes.  Why 
don't  they  say  it  to  his  face!  There  ain't  one 
of  'em  as  dares  it,  and  he's  the  best  soldier  in 
the  comp'ny,  an'  I'm  jest  as  proud  of  it  as  if  he 
was  my  own." 

The  old  woman  was  evidently  bound  to  de- 
fend herself.  She  said  : 

"It  don't  lay  in  your  mouth  to  take  up 
for  him,  Vashti  Mills;  for  you're  the  one  as 
has  gone  up  and  down  and  abused  him  scan- 
dalous. ' ' 

200 


Little  Darby 


"Yes,  and  I  know  I  did,"  said  the  girl, 
springing  up  excitedly  and  tossing  her  arms  and 
tearing  at  her  ribbons.  "An'  I  told  him  to 
his  face  too,  and  that's  the  only  good  thing 
about  it.  I  knovved  it  was  a  lie  when  I  told 
him,  and  he  knowed  it  was  a  lie  too,  and  he 
knowed  I  knowed  it  was  a  lie — what's  more — 
and  I'm  glad  he  did — fo'  God  I'm  glad  he  did. 
He  could  'a'  whipped  the  whole  company  an' 
he  jest  wouldn't — an'  that's  God's  truth — 
God's  fatal  truth." 

The  next  instant  she  was  on  her  knees  hunt- 
ing for  something  on  the  floor,  in  an  agony  of 
tears ;  and  as  her  father,  aroused  by  the  noise, 
rose  and  asked  a  question,  she  sprang  up  and 
rushed  out  of  the  door. 

The  sound  of  an  axe  was  already  coming 
through  the  darkness  across  the  gum  thickets 
from  Mrs.  Stanley's,  telling  that  preparation 
was  being  made  for  Darby's  last  breakfast.  It 
might  have  told  more,  however,  by  its  long 
continuance ;  for  it  meant  that  Little  Darby 
was  cutting  his  mother  a  supply  of  wood  to  last 
till  his  return.  Inside,  the  old  woman,  thin 
and  faded,  was  rubbing  his  musket. 

The  sun  was  just  rising  above  the  pines,  filling 
the  little  bottom  between  the  cabins  with  a 

201 


Little  Darby 


sort  of  rosy  light,  and  making  the  dewy  bushes 
and  weeds  sparkle  with  jewel-strung  gossamer 
webs,  when  Little  Darby,  with  his  musket  in 
his  hand,  stepped  for  the  last  time  out  of  the 
low  door.  He  had  been  the  first  soldier  in 
the  district  to  enlist,  he  must  be  on  time.  He 
paused  just  long  enough  to  give  one  swift 
glance  around  the  little  clearing,  and  then  set 
out  along  the  path  at  his  old  swinging  pace. 
At  the  edge  of  the  pines  he  turned  and  glanced 
back.  His  mother  was  standing  in  the  door, 
but  whether  she  saw  him  or  not  he  could  not 
tell.  He  waved  his  hand  to  her,  but  she  did 
not  wave  back,  her  eyes  were  failing  somewhat. 
The  next  instant  he  disappeared  in  the  pines. 

He  had  crossed  the  little  stream  on  the  old 
log  and  passed  the  point  where  he  had  met 
Vashti  the  evening  before,  when  he  thought  he 
heard  something  fall  a  little  ahead  of  him.  It 
could  not  have  been  a  squirrel,  for  it  did  not 
move  after  it  fell.  His  old  hunter's  instinct 
caused  him  to  look  keenly  down  the  path  as 
he  turned  the  clump  of  bushes  which  stopped 
his  view ;  but  he  saw  no  squirrel  or  other  mov- 
ing thing.  The  only  thing  he  saw  was  a  little 
brown  something  with  a  curious  spot  on  it  lying 
in  the  path  some  little  way  ahead.  As  he  came 
nearer  it,  he  saw  that  it  was  a  small  parcel  not 
202 


Little  Darby 


as  big  as  a  man's  fist.  Someone  had  evidently 
dropped  it  the  evening  before.  He  picked  it 
up  and  examined  it  as  he  strode  along.  It  was 
a  little  case  or  wallet  made  of  some  brown  stuff, 
such  as  women  carry  needles  and  thread  in,  and 
it  was  tied  up  with  a  bit  of  red,  white  and  blue 
string,  the  Confederate  colors,  on  the  end  of 
which  was  sewed  a  small  bow  of  pink  ribbon. 
He  untied  it.  It  was  what  it  looked  to  be  :  a 
roughly  made  little  needle-case  such  as  women 
use,  tolerably  well  stocked  with  sewing  mate- 
rials, and  it  had  something  hard  and  almost 
square  in  a  separate  pocket.  Darby  opened 
this,  and  his  gun  almost  slipped  from  his  hand. 
Inside  was  the  Testament  he  had  given  back  to 
Vashti  the  evening  before.  He  stopped  stock- 
still,  and  gazed  at  it  in  amazement,  turning  it 
over  in  his  hand.  He  recognized  the  bow  of 
pink  ribbon  as  one  like  that  which  she  had  had 
on  her  dress  the  evening  before.  She  must 
have  dropped  it.  Then  it  came  to  him  that  she 
must  have  given  it  to  one  of  her  brothers,  and  a 
pang  shot  through  his  heart.  But  how  did  it 
get  where  he  found  it  ?  He  was  too  keen  a 
woodsman  not  to  know  that  no  footstep  had 
gone  before  his  on  that  path  that  morning.  It 
was  a  mystery  too  deep  for  him,  and  after  puz- 
zling over  it  a  while  he  tied  the  parcel  up  again 
203 


Little  Darby 


as  nearly  like  what  it  had  been  before  as  he 
could,  and  determined  to  give  it  to  one  of  the 
Mills  boys  when  he  reached  the  Cross-roads. 
He  unbuttoned  his  jacket  and  put  it  into  the  little 
inner  pocket,  and  then  rebuttoning  it  carefully, 
stepped  out  again  more  briskly  than  before. 

It  was  perhaps  an  hour  later  that  the  Mills 
boys  set  out  for  the  Cross-roads.  Their  father 
and  mother  went  with  them  ;  but  Vashti  did 
not  go.  She  had  "been  out  to  look  for  the 
cow,"  and  got  in  only  just  before  they  left, 
still  clad  in  her  yesterday's  finery  ;  but  it  was 
wet  and  bedraggled  with  the  soaking  dew. 
When  they  were  gone  she  sat  down  in  the  door, 
limp  and  dejected. 

More  than  once  during  the  morning  the  girl 
rose  and  started  down  the  path  as  if  she  would 
follow  them  and  see  the  company  set  out  on  its 
march,  but  each  time  she  came  back  and  sat 
down  again  in  the  door,  remaining  there  for  a 
good  while  as  if  in  thought. 

Once  she  went  over  almost  to  Mrs.  Stanley's, 
then  turned  back  and  sat  down  again. 

So  the  morning  passed,  and  the  first  thing 
she  knew,  her  father  and  mother  had  returned. 
The  company  had  started.  They  were  to 
march  to  the  bridge  that  night.  She  heard 
them  talking  over  the  appearance  that  they  had 
204 


Little  Darby 


made  ;  the  speech  of  the  captain  ;  the  cheers 
that  went  up  as  they  marched  off — the  enthusi- 
asm of  the  crowd.  Her  father  was  in  much 
excitement.  Suddenly  she  seized  her  sun-bon- 
net and  slipped  out  of  the  house  and  across  the 
clearing,  and  the  next  instant  she  was  flying 
down  the  path  through  the  pines.  She  knew 
the  road  they  had  taken,  and  a  path  that  would 
strike  it  several  miles  lower  down.  She  ran 
like  a  deer,  up  hill  and  down,  availing  herself 
of  every  short  cut,  until,  about  an  hour  after 
she  started,  she  came  out  on  the  road.  Fortu- 
nately for  her,  the  delays  incident  to  getting 
any  body  of  new  troops  on  the  march  had  de- 
tained the  company,  and  a  moment's  inspection 
of  the  road  showed  her  that  they  had  not  yet 
passed.  Clambering  up  a  bank,  she  concealed 
herself  and  lay  down.  In  a  few  moments  she 
heard  the  noise  they  made  in  the  distance,  and 
she  was  still  panting  from  her  haste  when  they 
came  along,  the  soldiers  marching  in  order,  as 
if  still  on  parade,  and  a  considerable  company  of 
friends  attending  them.  Not  a  man,  however, 
dreamed  that,  flat  on  her  face  in  the  bushes, 
lay  a  girl  peering  down  at  them  with  her  breath 
held,  but  with  a  heart  which  beat  so  loud  to 
her  own  ears  that  she  felt  they  must  hear  it. 
Least  of  all  did  Darby  Stanley,  marching  erect 
20; 


Little  Darby 


and  tall  in  front,  for  all  the  sore  heart  in  his 
bosom,  know  that  her  eyes  were  on  him  as  long 
as  she  could  see  him. 

When  Vashti  brought  up  the  cow  that  night 
it  was  later  than  usual.  It  perhaps  was  fortu- 
nate for  her  that  the  change  made  by  the  ab- 
sence of  the  boys  prevented  any  questioning. 
After  all  the  excitement  her  mother  was  in  a 
fit  of  despondency.  Her  father  sat  in  the  door 
looking  straight  before  him,  as  silent  as  the  pine 
on  which  his  vacant  gaze  was  fixed.  Even 
when  the  little  cooking  they  had  was  through 
with  and  his  supper  was  offered  him,  he  never 
spoke.  He  ate  in  silence  and  then  took  his  seat 
again.  Even  Mrs.  Mills's  complaining  about 
the  cow  straying  so  far  brought  no  word  from 
him  any  more  than  from  Vashti.  He  sat  silent 
as  before,  his  long  legs  stretched  out  toward 
the  fire.  The  glow  of  the  embers  fell  on  the 
rough,  thin  face  and  lit  it  up,  bringing  out  the 
features  and  making  them  suddenly  clear-cut 
and  strong.  It  might  have  been  only  the  fire, 
but  there  seemed  the  glow  of  something  more, 
and  the  eyes  burnt  back  under  the  shaggy  brows. 
The  two  women  likewise  were  silent,  the  elder 
now  and  then  casting  a  glance  at  her  husband. 
She  offered  him  his  pipe,  but  he  said  nothing, 
and  silence  fell  as  before. 
206 


Little  Darby 


Presently  she  could  stand  it  no  longer.  "  I 
de-clar,  Vashti,"  she  said,  "  I  believe  your  pap- 
py takes  it  most  harder  than  I  does." 

The  girl  made  some  answer  about  the  boys. 
It  was  hardly  intended  for  him  to  hear,  but  he 
rose  suddenly,  and  walking  to  the  door,  took 
down  from  the  two  dogwood  forks  above  it  his 
old,  long,  single-barrelled  gun,  and  turning  to 
his  wife  said,  "  Git  me  my  coat,  old  woman; 
by  Gawd,  I'm  a-gwine."  The  two  women  were 
both  on  their  feet  in  a  second.  Their  faces 
were  white  and  their  hands  were  clenched  under 
the  sudden  stress,  their  breath  came  fast.  The 
older  woman  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  What  in  the  worl'  ken  you  do,  Cove  Mills, 
ole  an'  puny  as  you  is,  an'  got  the  rheumatiz 
all  the  time,  too?  " 

"  I  ken  pint  a  gun,"  said  the  old  man,  dog- 
gedly, "an'  I'm  a-gwine." 

"  An'  what  in  the  worl'  is  a-goin'  to  become 
of  us,  an'  that  cow  got  to  runnin'  away  so,  I'm 
afeared  all  the  time  she'll  git  in  the  mash?" 
Her  tone  was  querulous,  but  it  was  not  posi- 
tive, and  when  her  husband  said  again,  "I'm 
a-gwine,"  she  said  no  more,  and  all  the  time 
she  was  getting  together  the  few  things  which 
Cove  would  take. 

As  for  Vashti,  she  seemed  suddenly  revivi- 
207 


Little  Darby 


fied ;  she  moved  about  with  a  new  step,  swift, 
supple,  silent,  her  head  up,  a  new  light  in  her 
face,  and  her  eyes,  as  they  turned  now  and  then 
on  her  father,  filled  with  a  new  fire.  She  did 
not  talk  much.  "I'll  a-teck  care  o'  us  all,"  she 
said  once ;  and  once  again,  when  her  mother 
gave  something  like  a  moan,  she  supported  her 
with  a  word  about  "the  only  ones  as  gives 
three  from  one  family."  It  was  a  word  in  sea- 
son, for  the  mother  caught  the  spirit,  and  a 
moment  later  declared,  with  a  ne\v  tone  in  her 
voice,  that  that  was  better  than  Mrs.  Stanley, 
and  still  they  were  better  off  than  she,  for  they 
still  had  two  left  to  help  each  other,  while  she 
had  not  a  soul. 

"I'll  teck  care  o'  us  all,"  repeated  the  girl 
once  more. 

It  was  only  a  few  things  that  Cove  Mills  took 
with  him  that  morning,  when  he  set  out  in  the 
darkness  to  overtake  the  company  before  they 
should  break  camp — hardly  his  old  game-bag 
half  full ;  for  the  equipment  of  the  boys  had 
stripped  the  little  cabin  of  everything  that  could 
be  of  use.  He  might  only  have  seemed  to  be 
going  hunting,  as  he  slung  down  the  path  with 
his  old  long-barrelled  gun  in  his  hand  and  his 
game-bag  over  his  shoulder,  and  disappeared  in 
208 


Little  Darby 


the  darkness  from   the  eyes  of  the  two  women 
standing  in  the  cabin  door. 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Mills  paid  Mrs.  Stan- 
ley the  first  visit  she  had  paid  on  that  side  the 
branch  since  the  day,  three  years  before,  when 
Cove  and  the  boys  had  the  row  with  Little 
Darby.  It  might  have  seemed  accidental,  but 
Mrs.  Stanley  was  the  first  person  in  the  district 
to  know  that  all  the  Mills  men  were  gone  to  the 
army.  She  went  over  again,  from  time  to  time, 
for  it  was  not  a  period  to  keep  up  open  hostili- 
ties, and  she  was  younger  than  Mrs.  Stanley 
and  better  off;  but  Vashti  never  went,  and 
Mrs.  Stanley  never  asked  after  her  or  came. 


209 


II 


THE  company  in  which  Little  Darby  and 
the  Mi  Uses  had  enlisted  was  one  of  the 
many  hundred  infantry  companies  which  joined 
and  were  merged  in  the  Confederate  army.  It 
was  in  no  way  particularly  signalized  by  any- 
thing that  it  did.  It  was  commanded  by  the 
gentleman  who  did  most  toward  getting  it  up ; 
and  the  officers  were  gentlemen.  The  seventy 
odd  men  who  made  the  rank  and  file  were  of 
all  classes,  from  the  sons  of  the  oldest  and 
wealthiest  planters  in  the  neighborhood  to 
Little  Darby  and  the  dwellers  in  the  district. 
The  war  was  very  different  from  what  those 
who  went  into  it  expected  it  to  be.  Until  it 
had  gone  on  some  time  it  seemed  mainly  march- 
ing and  camping  and  staying  in  camp,  quite 
uselessly  as  seemed  to  many,  and  drilling  and 
doing  nothing.  Much  of  the  time — especially 
later  on — was  given  to  marching  and  getting 
food ;  but  drilling  and  camp  duties  at  first  took 
up  most  of  it.  This  was  especially  hard  on  the 
poorer  men,  no  one  knew  what  it  was  to  them. 
210 


Little  Darby 


Some  moped,  some  fell  sick.  Of  the  former 
class  was  Little  Darby.  He  was  too  strong  to 
be  sickly  as  one  of  the  Mills  boys  was,  who  died 
of  fever  in  hospital  only  three  months  after  they 
went  in,  and  too  silent  to  be  as  the  other,  who 
was  jolly  and  could  dance  and  sing  a  good  song 
and  was  soon  very  popular  in  the  company  ; 
more  popular  even  than  Old  Cove,  who  was 
popular  in  several  rights,  as  being  about  the 
oldest  man  in  the  company  and  as  having  a  sort 
of  dry  wit  when  he  was  in  a  good  humor,  which 
he  generally  was.  Little  Darby  was  hardly  dis- 
tinguished at  all,  unless  by  the  fact  that  he  was 
somewhat  taller  than  most  of  his  comrades  and 
somewhat  more  taciturn.  He  was  only  a  com- 
mon soldier  of  a  common  class  in  an  ordinary 
infantry  company,  such  a  company  as  was  com- 
mon in  the  army.  He  still  had  the  little  wallet 
which  he  had  picked  up  in  the  path  that  morn- 
ing he  left  home.  He  had  asked  both  of  the 
Mills  boys  vaguely  if  they  ever  had  owned  such 
a  piece  of  property,  but  they  had  not,  and  when 
old  Cove  told  him  that  he  had  not  either,  he 
had  contented  himself  and  carried  it  about  with 
him  somewhat  elaborately  wrapped  up  and  tied 
in  an  old  piece  of  oilcloth  and  in  his  inside 
jacket  pocket  for  safety,  with  a  vague  feeling 
that  some  day  he  might  find  the  owner  or  re- 
211 


Little  Darby 


turn  it.  He  was  never  on  specially  good  terms 
with  the  Mi  Uses.  Indeed,  there  was  always  a 
trace  of  coolness  between  them  and  him.  He 
could  not  give  it  to  them.  Now  and  then  he 
untied  and  unwrapped  it  in  a  secret  place  and 
read  a  little  in  the  Testament,  but  that  was  all. 
He  never  touched  a  needle  or  so  much  as  a  pin, 
and  when  he  untied  the  parcel  he  generally 
counted  them  to  see  that  they  were  all  there. 

So  the  war  went  on,  with  battles  coming  a 
little  oftener  and  food  growing  ever  a  little 
scarcer  ;  but  the  company  was  about  as  before, 
nothing  particular — what  with  killing  and  fever 
a  little  thinned,  a  good  deal  faded  ;  and  Little 
Darby  just  one  in  a  crowd,  marching  with  the 
rest,  sleeping  with  the  rest,  fighting  with  the 
rest,  starving  with  the  rest.  He  was  hardly 
known  for  a  long  time,  except  for  his  silence, 
outside  of  his  mess.  Men  were  fighting  and 
getting  killed  or  wounded  constantly ;  as  for 
him,  he  was  never  touched  ;  and  as  he  did  what 
he  was  ordered  silently  and  was  silent  when  he 
got  through,  there  was  no  one  to  sing  his  praise. 
Even  when  he  was  sent  out  on  the  skirmish 
line  as  a  sharp-shooter,  if  he  did  anything  no 
one  knew  it.  He  would  disappear  over  a  crest, 
or  in  a  wood,  and  reappear  as  silent  as  if  he 
were  hunting  in  the  swamps  of  the  district ; 


Little  Darby 


clean  his  gun ;  cut  up  wood ;  eat  what  he  could 
get,  and  sit  by  the  fire  and  listen  to  the  talk, 
as  silent  awake  as  asleep. 

One  other  thing  distinguished  him,  he  could 
handle  an  axe  better  than  any  man  in  the  com- 
pany ;  but  no  one  thought  much  of  that — least 
of  all,  Little  Darby ;  it  only  brought  him  a  little 
more  work  occasionally. 

One  day,  in  the  heat  of  a  battle  which  the 
men  knew  was  being  won,  if  shooting  and 
cheering  and  rapid  advancing  could  tell  any- 
thing, the  advance  which  had  been  going  on 
with  spirit  was  suddenly  checked  by  a  murder- 
ous artillery  fire  which  swept  the  top  of  a  slope, 
along  the  crest  of  which  ran  a  road  a  little 
raised  between  two  deep  ditches  topped  by  the 
remains  of  heavy  fences.  The  infantry,  after  a 
gallant  and  hopeless  charge,  were  ordered  to  lie 
down  in  the  ditch  behind  the  pike,  and  were 
sheltered  from  the  leaden  sleet  which  swept  the 
crest.  Artillery  was  needed  to  clear  the  field 
beyond,  by  silencing  the  batteries  which  swept 
it,  but  no  artillery  could  get  into  position  for 
the  ditches,  and  the  day  seemed  about  to  be 
lost.  The  only  way  was  up  the  pike,  and  the 
only  break  was  a  gate  opening  into  the  field 
right  on  top  of  the  hill.  The  gate  was  gone, 
but  two  huge  wooden  gate-posts,  each  a  tree- 

213 


Little  Darby 


trunk,  still  stood  and  barred  the  way.  No 
cannon  had  room  to  turn  in  between  them ;  a 
battery  had  tried  and  a  pile  of  dead  men, 
horses,  and  debris  marked  its  failure.  A  gen- 
eral officer  galloped  up  with  two  or  three  of  his 
staff  to  try  to  start  the  advance  again.  He  saw 
the  impossibility. 

"  If  we  could  get  a  couple  of  batteries  into 
that  field  for  three  minutes,"  he  said,  "  it 
would  do  the  work,  but  in  ten  minutes  it  will 
be  too  late. ' ' 

The  company  from  the  old  county  was  lying 
behind  the  bank  almost  exactly  opposite  the 
gate,  and  every  word  could  be  heard. 

Where  the  axe  came  from  no  one  knew ;  but 
a  minute  later  a  man  slung  himself  across  the 
road,  and  the  next  second  the  sharp,  steady 
blows  of  an  axe  were  ringing  on  the  pike.  The 
axeman  had  cut  a  wide  cleft  in  the  brown 
wood,  and  the  big  chips  were  flying  before  his 
act  was  quite  taken  in,  and  then  a  cheer  went 
up  from  the  line.  It  was  no  time  to  cheer,  how- 
ever ;  other  chips  were  flying  than  those  'from 
the  cutter's  axe,  and  the  bullets  hissed  by  him 
like  bees,  splintering  the  hard  post  and  knock- 
ing the  dust  from  the  road  about  his  feet ;  but 
he  took  no  notice  of  them,  his  axe  plied  as 
steadily  as  if  he  had  been  cutting  a  tree  in  the 
214 


Little  Darby 


woods  of  the  district,  and  when  he  had  cut 
one  side,  he  turned  as  deliberately  and  cut  the 
other ;  then  placing  his  hand  high  up,  he  flung 
his  weight  against  the  post  and  it  went  down. 
A  great  cheer  went  up  and  the  axeman  swung 
back  across  the  road  just  as  two  batteries  of  ar- 
tillery tore  through  the  opening  he  had  made. 

Few  men  outside  of  his  company  knew  who 
the  man  was,  and  few  had  time  to  ask ;  for  the 
battle  was  on  again  and  the  infantry  pushed 
forward.  As  for  Little  Darby  himself,  the  only 
thing  he  said  was,  "  I  knowed  I  could  cut  it 
down  in  ten  minutes."  He  had  nine  bullet 
holes  through  his  clothes  that  night,  but  Little 
Darby  thought  nothing  of  it,  and  neither  did 
others ;  many  others  had  bullet  holes  through 
their  bodies  that  night.  It  happened  not  long 
afterward  that  the  general  was  talking  of  the 
battle  to  an  English  gentleman  who  had  come 
over  to  see  something  of  the  war  and  was  visit- 
ing him  in  his  camp,  and  he  mentioned  the  in- 
cident of  a  battle  won  by  an  axeman's  coolness, 
but  did  not  know  the  name  of  the  man  who  cut 
the  post  away ;  the  captain  of  the  company, 
however,  was  the  general's  cousin  and  was 
dining  with  his  guest  that  day,  and  he  said  with 
pride  that  he  knew  the  man,  that  he  was  in  his 
company,  and  he  gave  the  name. 
215 


Little  Darby 


"  It  is  a  fine  old  name,"  said  the  visitor. 

"  And  he  is  a  fine  man,"  said  the  captain; 
but  none  of  this  was  ever  known  by  Darby. 
He  was  not  mentioned  in  the  gazette,  because 
there  was  no  gazette.  The  confederate  soldiery 
had  no  honors  save  the  approval  of  their  own 
consciences  and  the  love  of  their  own  people. 
It  was  not  even  mentioned  in  the  district ;  or.  if 
it  was,  it  was  only  that  he  had  cut  down  a  post ; 
other  men  were  being  shot  to  pieces  all  the  time 
and  the  district  had  other  things  to  think  of. 

Poor  at  all  times,  the  people  of  the  district 
were  now  absolutely  without  means  of  subsist- 
ence. Fortunately  for  them,  they  were  inured 
to  hardship ;  and  their  men  being  all  gone  to 
the  war,  the  women  made  such  shift  as  they 
could  and  lived  as  they  might.  They  hoed 
their  little  patches,  fished  the  streams,  and 
trapped  in  the  woods.  But  it  was  poor  enough 
at  best,  and  the  weak  went  down  and  only  the 
strong  survived.  Mrs.  Mills  was  better  off  than 
most,  she  had  a  cow — at  first,  and  she  had 
Vashti.  Vashti  turned  out  to  be  a  tower  of 
strength.  She  trapped  more  game  than  any- 
one in  the  district ;  caught  more  fish  with  lines 
and  traps — she  went  miles  to  fish  below  the 
forks  where  the  fish  were  bigger  than  above  ; 
she  learned  to  shoot  with  her  father's  old  gun, 
216 


Little  Darby 


which  had  been  sent  back  when  he  got  a  mus- 
ket, shot  like  a  man  and  better  than  most  men  ; 
she  hoed  the  patch,  she  tended  the  cow  till  it 
was  lost,  and  then  she  did  many  other  things. 
Her  mother  declared  that,  when  Chris  died 
(Chris  was  the  boy  who  died  of  fever),  but  for 
Vashti  she  could  not  have  got  along  at  all,  and 
there  were  many  other  women  in  the  pines  who 
felt  the  same  thing. 

When  the  news  came  that  Bob  Askew  was 
killed,  Vashti  was  one  of  the  first  who  got  to 
Bob's  wife  ;  and  when  Billy  Luck  disappeared 
in  a  battle,  Vashti  gave  the  best  reasons  for 
thinking  he  had  been  taken  prisoner  ;  and  many 
a  string  of  fish  and  many  a  squirrel  and  hare 
found  their  way  into  the  empty  cabins  because 
Vashti  ' '  happened  to  pass  by. ' ' 

From  having  been  rather  stigmatized  as 
"  that  Vashti  Mills,"  she  came  to  be  relied  on, 
and  "  Vashti  "  was  consulted  and  quoted  as  an 
authority. 

One  cabin  alone  she  never  visited.  The 
house  of  old  Mrs.  Stanley,  now  almost  complete- 
ly buried  under  its  unpruned  wistaria  vine,  she 
never  entered.  Her  mother,  as  has  been  said, 
sometimes  went  across  the  bottom,  and  now 
and  then  took  with  her  a  hare  or  a  bird  or  q 
string  of  fish — on  condition  from  Vashti  that  it 
217 


Little  Darby 


should  not  be  known  she  had  caught  them  ;  but 
Vashti  never  went,  and  Mrs.  Mills  found  herself 
sometimes  put  to  it  to  explain  to  others  her  un- 
neighborliness.  The  best  she  could  make  of  it 
to  say  that  "  Vashti,  she  always  do  do  her  own 
way." 

How  Mrs.  Stanley's  wood-pile  was  kept  up  no- 
body knew,  if,  indeed,  it  could  be  called  a  wood- 
pile, when  it  was  only  a  recurring  supply  of  dry- 
wood  thrown  as  if  accidentally  just' at  the  edge 
of  the  clearing.  Mrs.  Stanley  was  not  of  an 
imaginative  turn,  even  of  enough  to  explain 
how  it  came  that  so  much  dry- wood  came  to  be 
there  broken  up  just  the  right  length  ;  and  Mrs. 
Mills  knew  no  more  than  that  "  that  cow  was 
always  a-goin'  off  and  a-keepin'  Vashti  a-huntin' 
every wheres  in  the  worl'." 

All  said,  however,  the  women  of  the  district 
had  a  hungry  time,  and  the  war  bore  on  them 
heavily  as  on  everyone  else,  and  as  it  went  on 
they  suffered  more  and  more.  Many  a  woman 
went  day  after  day  and  week  after  week  without 
even  the  small  portion  of  coarse  corn -bread 
which  was  ordinarily  her  common  fare.  They 
called  oftener  and  oftener  at  the  house  of  their 
neighbors  who  owned  the  plantations  near 
them,  and  always  received  something ;  but  as 
time  went  on  the  plantations  themselves  were 
218 


Little  Darby 


stripped  ;  the  little  things  they  could  take  with 
them  when  they  went,  such  as  eggs,  honey,  etc., 
were  wanting,  and  to  go  too  often  without  any- 
thing to  give  might  make  them  seem  like  beg- 
gars, and  that  they  were  not.  Their  husbands 
and  sons  were  in  the  army  fighting  for  the 
South,  as  well  as  those  from  the  plantations, 
and  they  stood  by  this  fact  on  the  same  level. 

The  arrogant  looks  of  the  negroes  were  un- 
pleasant, and  in  marked  contrast  to  the  univer- 
sal graciousness  of  their  owners,  but  they  were 
slaves  and  they  could  afford  to  despise  them. 
Only  they  must  uphold  their  independence. 
Thus  no  one  outside  knew  what  the  women  of 
the  district  went  through.  When  they  wrote  to 
their  husbands  or  sons  that  they  were  in  straits, 
it  meant  that  they  were  starving.  Such  a  let- 
ter meant  all  the  more  because  they  were  used 
to  hunger,  but  not  to  writing,  and  a  letter 
meant  perhaps  days  of  thought  and  enterprise 
and  hours  of  labor. 

As  the  war  went  on  the  hardships  everywhere 
grew  heavier  and  heavier ;  the  letters  from  home 
came  oftener  and  oftener.  Many  of  the  men 
got  furloughs  when  they  were  in  winter  quar- 
ters, and  sometimes  in  summer,  too,  from 
wounds,  and  went  home  to  see  their  families. 
Little  Darby  never  went ;  he  sent  his  mother 
219 


Little  Darby 


his  pay,  and  wrote  to  her,  but  he  did  not  even 
apply  for  a  furlough,  and  he  had  never  been 
touched  except  for  a  couple  of  flesh  wounds 
which  were  barely  skin-deep.  When  he  heard 
from  his  mother  she  was  always  cheerful ;  and 
as  he  knew  Vashti  had  never  even  visited  her, 
there  was  no  other  reason  for  his  going  home. 
It  was  in  the  late  part  of  the  third  campaign  of 
the  war  that  he  began  to  think  of  going. 

When  Cove  Mills  got  a  letter  from  his  wife 
and  told  Little  Darby  how  "  ailin' "  and 
"  puny  "  his  mother  was  getting,  Darby  knew 
that  the  letter  was  written  by  Vashti,  and  he 
felt  that  it  meant  a  great  deal.  He  applied  for 
a  furlough,  but  was  told  that  no  furloughs 
would  be  granted  then — which  then  meant  that 
work  was  expected.  It  came  shortly  afterward, 
and  Little  Darby  and  the  company  were  in  it. 
Battle  followed  battle.  A  good  many  men 
in  the  company  were  killed,  but,  as  it  hap- 
pened, not  one  of  the  men  from  the  district 
was  among  them,  until  one  day  when  the  com- 
pany after  a  fierce  charge  found  itself  hugging 
the  ground  in  a  wide  field,  on  the  far  side 
of  which  the  enemy  —  infantry  and  artillery 
— was  posted  in  force.  Lying  down  they  were 
pretty  well  protected  by  the  conformation 
of  the  ground  from  the  artillery;  and  lying 
220 


Little  Darby 


down,  the  infantry  generally,  even  with  their 
better  guns,  could  not  hurt  them  to  a  great 
extent ;  but  a  line  of  sharp  -  shooters,  well 
placed  behind  cover  of  scattered  rocks  on  the 
far  side  of  the  field,  could  reach  them  with 
their  long-range  rifles,  and  galled  them  with 
their  dropping  fire,  picking  off  man  after  man. 
A  line  of  sharp-shooters  was  thrown  forward  to 
drive  them  in  ;  but  their  guns  were  not  as  good 
and  the  cover  was  inferior,  and  it  was  only  after 
numerous  losses  that  they  succeeded  in  silenc- 
ing most  of  them.  They  still  left  several  men 
up  among  the  rocks,  who  from  time  to  time 
sent  a  bullet  into  the  line  with  deadly  effect. 
One  man,  in  particular,  ensconced  behind  a 
rock  on  the  hill-side,  picked  off  the  men  with 
unerring  accuracy.  Shot  after  shot  was  sent  at 
him.  At  last  he  was  quiet  for  so  long  that  it 
seemed  he  must  have  been  silenced,  and  they 
began  to  hope  ;  Ad  Mills  rose  to  his  knees  and 
in  sheer  bravado  waved  his  hat  in  triumph. 
Just  as  he  did  so  a  puff  of  white  came  from  the 
rock,  and  Ad  Mills  threw  up  his  hands  and  fell 
on  his  back,  like  a  log,  stone  dead.  A  groan 
of  mingled  rage  and  dismay  went  along  the 
line.  Poor  old  Cove  crept  over  and  fell  on  the 
boy's  body  with  a  flesh  wound  in  his  own  arm. 
Fifty  shots  were  sent  at  the  rock,  but  a  puff  of 


Little  Darby 


smoke  from  it  afterward  and  a  hissing  bullet 
showed  that  the  marksman  was  untouched.  It 
was  apparent  that  he  was  secure  behind  his  rock 
bulwark  and  had  some  opening  through  which 
he  could  fire  at  his  leisure.  It  was  also  appa- 
rent that  he  must  be  dislodged  if  possible  ;  but 
how  to  do  it  was  the  question ;  no  one  could 
reach  him.  The  slope  down  and  the  slope  up 
to  the  group  of  rocks  behind  which  he  lay  were 
both  in  plain  view,  and  any  man  would  be  rid- 
dled who  attempted  to  cross  it.  A  bit  of  woods 
reached  some  distance  up  on  one  side,  but  not 
far  enough  to  give  a  shot  at  one  behind  the  rock  ; 
and  though  the  ground  in  that  direction  dipped 
a  little,  there  was  one  little  ridge  in  full  view  of 
both  lines  and  perfectly  bare,  except  for  a  num- 
ber of  bodies  of  skirmishers  who  had  fallen 
earlier  in  the  day.  It  was  discussed  in  the  line  ; 
but  everyone  knew  that  no  man  could  get  across 
the  ridge  alive.  While  they  were  talking  of  it 
Little  Darby,  who,  with  a  white  face,  had 
helped  old  Cove  to  get  his  boy's  body  back  out 
of  fire,  slipped  off  to  one  side,  rifle  in  hand,  and 
disappeared  in  the  wood. 

They  were  still  talking  of  the  impossibility 

of  dislodging  the  sharp-shooter  when   a  man 

appeared  on  the  edge  of  the  wood.     He  moved 

swiftly  across  the   sheltered   ground,  stooping 

222 


Little  Darby 


low  until  he  reached  the  edge  of  the  exposed 
place,  where  he  straightened  up  and  made  a 
dash  across  it.  He  was  recognized  instantly 
by  some  of  the  men  of  his  company  as  Little 
Darby,  and  a  buzz  of  astonishment  went  along 
the  line.  What  could  he  mean,  it  was  sheer 
madness  ;  the  line  of  white  smoke  along  the 
wood  and  the  puffs  of  dust  about  his  feet  showed 
that  bullets  were  raining  around  him.  The 
next  second  he  stopped  dead-still,  threw  up  his 
arms,  and  fell  prone  on  his  face  in  full  view  oJ 
both  lines.  A  groan  went  up  from  his  com 
rades ;  the  whole  company  knew  he  was  dead, 
and  on  the  instant  a  puff  of  white  from  the 
rock  and  a  hissing  bullet  told  that  the  sharp- 
shooter there  was  still  intrenched  in  his  cov- 
ert. The  men  were  discussing  Little  Darby, 
when  someone  cried  out  and  pointed  to  him. 
He  was  still  alive,  and  not  only  alive,  but  was 
moving — moving  slowly  but  steadily  up  the 
ridge  and  nearer  on  a  line  with  the  sharp- 
shooter, as  flat  on  the  ground  as  any  of  the 
motionless  bodies  about  him.  A  strange 
thrill  of  excitement  went  through  the  com- 
pany as  the  dark  object  dragged  itself  nearer 
to  the  rock,  and  it  was  not  allayed  when  the 
whack  of  a  bullet  and  the  well-known  white 
puff  of  smoke  recalled  them  to  the  sharp-shoot- 
223 


Little  Darby 


er's  dangerous  aim  ;  for  the  next  second  the 
creeping  figure  sprang  erect  and  made  a  dash 
for  the  spot.  He  had  almost  reached  it  when 
the  sharp-shooter  discovered  him,  and  the  men 
knew  that  Little  Darby  had  underestimated  the 
quickness  of  his  hand  and  aim  ;  for  at  the  same 
moment  the  figure  of  the  man  behind  the  rock 
appeared  for  a  second  as  he  sprang  erect ;  there 
was  a  puff  of  white  and  Little  Darby  stopped 
and  staggered  and  sank  to  his  knees.  The  next 
second,  however,  there  was  a  puff  from  where 
he  knelt,  and  then  he  sank  flat  once  more,  and 
a  moment  later  rolled  over  on  his  face  on  the 
near  side  of  the  rock  and  just  at  its  foot. 
There  were  no  more  bullets  sent  from  that  rock 
that  day — at  least,  against  the  Confederates — 
and  that  night  Little  Darby  walked  into  his 
company's  bivouac,  dusty  from  head  to  foot 
and  with  a  bullet-hole  in  his  clothes  not  far 
from  his  heart ;  but  he  said  it  was  only  a  spent 
bullet  and  had  just  knocked  the  breath  out  of 
him.  He  was  pretty  sore  from  it  for  a  time, 
but  was  able  to  help  old  Cove  to  get  his  boy's 
body  off  and  to  see  him  start ;  for  the  old 
man's  wound,  though  not  dangerous,  was 
enough  to  disable  him  and  get  him  a  furlough, 
and  he  determined  to  take  his  son's  body 
home,  which  the  captain's  influence  enabled 
224 


Little  Darby 


him  to  do.  Between  his  wound  and  his  grief 
the  old  man  was  nearly  helpless,  and  accepted 
Darby's  silent  assistance  with  mute  gratitude. 
Darby  asked  him  to  tell  his  mother  that  he 
was  getting  on  well,  and  sent  her  what  money 
he  had — his  last  two  months'  pay — not  enough 
to  have  bought  her  a  pair  of  stockings  or  a 
pound  of  sugar.  The  only  other  message  he 
sent  was  given  at  the  station  just  as  Cove  set 
out.  He  said  : 

"  Tell  Vashti  as  I  got  him  as  done  it." 

Old  Cove  grasped  his  hand  tremulously  and 
faltered  his  promise  to  do  so,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment the  train  crawled  away  and  left  Darby  to 
plod  back  to  camp  in  the  rain,  vague  and  lonely 
in  the  remnant  of  what  had  once  been  a  gray 
uniform.  If  there  was  one  thing  that  troubled 
him  it  was  that  he  could  not  return  Vashti  the 
needle-case  until  he  replaced  the  broken  needles 
— and  there  were  so  many  of  them  broken. 

After  this  Darby  was  in  some  sort  known, 
and  was  put  pretty  constantly  on  sharp-shooter 
service. 

The  men  went  into  winter  quarters  before 
Darby  heard  anything  from  home.  It  came 
one  day  in  the  shape  of  a  letter  in  the  only 
hand  in  the  world  he  knew — Vashti's.  What 
it  could  mean  he  could  not  divine — was  his 
225 


Little  Darby 


mother  dead?  This  was  the  principal  thing 
that  occurred  to  him.  He  studied  the  outside. 
It  had  been  on  the  way  a  month  by  the  post- 
mark, for  letters  travelled  slowly  in  those  days, 
and  a  private  soldier  in  an  infantry  company 
was  hard  to  find  unless  the  address  was  pretty 
clear,  which  this  was  not.  He  did  not  open  it 
immediately.  His  mother  must  be  dead,  and 
this  he  could  not  face.  Nothing  else  would 
have  made  Vashti  write.  At  last  he  went  off 
alone  and  opened  it,  and  read  it,  spelling  it  out 
with  some  pains.  It  began  without  an  address, 
with  the  simple  statement  that  her  father  had 
arrived  with  Ad's  body  and  that  it  had  been 
buried,  and  that  his  wound  was  right  bad  and 
her  mother  was  mightily  cut  up  with  her  trou- 
ble. Then  it  mentioned  his  mother  and  said 
she  had  come  to  Ad's  funeral,  though  she  could 
not  walk  much  now  and  had  never  been  over 
to  their  side  since  the  day  after  he — Darby — 
had  enlisted  ;  but  her  father  had  told  her  as  how 
he  had  killed  the  man  as  shot  Ad,  and  so  she 
made  out  to  come  that  far.  Then  the  letter 
broke  off  from  giving  news,  and  as  if  under 
stress  of  feelings  long  pent  up,  suddenly  broke 
loose:  she  declared  that  she  loved  him;  that 
she  had  always  loved  him — always — ever  since 
lie  had  been  so  good  to  her — a  great  big  boy  to 
226 


Little  Darby 


a  little  bit  of  a  girl — -at  school,  and  that  she  did 
not  know  why  she  had  been  so  mean  to  him  ; 
for  when  she  had  treated  him  worst  she  had 
loved  him  most ;  that  she  had  gone  down  the 
path  that  night  when  they  had  met,  for  the 
purpose  of  meeting  him  and  of  letting  him  know 
she  loved  him;  but  something  had  made  her 
treat  him  as  she  did,  and  all  the  time  she  could 
have  let  him  kill  her  for  love  of  him.  She  said 
she  had  told  her  mother  and  father  she  loved 
him  and  she  had  tried  to  tell  his  mother,  but 
she  could  not,  for  she  was  afraid  of  her ;  but 
she  wanted  him  to  tell  her  when  he  came ;  and 
she  had  tried  to  help  her  and  keep  her  in  wood 
ever  since  he  went  away,  for  his  sake.  Then 
the  letter  told  how  poorly  his  mother  was  and 
how  she  had  failed  of  late,  and  she  said  she 
thought  he  ought  to  get  a  furlough  and  come 
home,  and  when  he  did  she  would  marry  him. 
It  was  not  very  well  written,  nor  wholly  co- 
herent ;  at  least  it  took  some  time  to  sink  fully 
into  Darby's  somewhat  dazed  intellect;  but  in 
time  he  took  it  in,  and  when  he  did  he  sat  like 
a  man  overwhelmed.  At  the  end  of  the  letter, 
as  if  possibly  she  thought,  in  the  greatness  of 
her  relief  at  her  confession,  that  the  temptation 
she  held  out  might  prove  too  great  even  for 
him,  or  possibly  only  because  she  was  a  woman. 
227 


Little  Darby 


there  was  a  postscript  scrawled  across  the  coarse, 
blue  Confederate  paper  :  "  Don't  come  without 
a  furlough ;  for  if  you  don't  come  honorable  I 
won't  marry  you."  This,  however,  Darby 
scarcely  read.  His  being  was  in  the  letter.  It 
was  only  later  that  the  picture  of  his  mother  ill 
and  failing  came  to  him,  and  it  smote  him  in 
the  midst  of  his  happiness  and  clung  to  him 
afterward  like  a  nightmare.  It  haunted  him. 
She  was  dying. 

He  applied  for  a  furlough ;  but  furloughs 
were  hard  to  get  then  and  he  could  not  hear 
from  it ;  and  when  a  letter  came  in  his  mother's 
name  in  a  lady's  hand  which  he  did  not  know, 
telling  him  of  his  mother's  poverty  and  sick- 
ness and  asking  him  if  he  could  get  off  to  come 
and  see  her,  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  dy- 
ing, and  he  did  not  wait  for  the  furlough.  He 
was  only  a  few  days'  march  from  home  and  he 
felt  that  he  could  see  her  and  get  back  before 
he  was  wanted.  So  one  day  he  set  out  in  the 
rain.  It  was  a  scene  of  desolation  that  he 
passed  through,  for  the  country  was  the  seat  of 
war  ;  fences  were  gone,  woods  burnt,  and  fields 
cut  up  and  bare ;  and  it  rained  all  the  time. 
A  little  before  morning,  on  the  night  of  the 
third  day,  he  reached  the  edge  of  the  district 
and  plunged  into  its  well  -  known  pines,  and 
228 


Little  Darby 


just  as  day  broke  he  entered  the  old  path  which 
led  up  the  little  hill  to  his  mother's  cabin. 
All  during  his  journey  he  had  been  picturing 
the  meeting  with  some  one  else  besides  his 
mother,  and  if  Vashti  had  stood  before  him  as 
he  crossed  the  old  log  he  would  hardly  have 
been  surprised.  Now,  however,  he  had  other 
thoughts  ;  as  he  reached  the  old  clearing  he  was 
surprised  to  find  it  grown  up  in  small  pines  al- 
ready almost  as  high  as  his  head,  and  tall  weeds 
filled  the  rows  among  the  old  peach-trees  and 
grew  up  to  the  very  door.  He  had  been  struck 
by  the  desolation  all  the  way  as  he  came  along  ; 
but  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  there  must 
be  a  change  at  his  own  home ;  he  had  always 
pictured  it  as  he  left  it,  as  he  had  always  thought 
of  Vashti  in  her  pink  calico,  with  her  hat  in  her 
hand  and  her  heavy  hair  almost  falling  down 
over  her  neck.  Now  a  great  horror  seized  him. 
The  door  was  wet  and  black.  His  mother 
must  be  dead.  He  stopped  and  peered  through 
the  darkness  at  the  dim  little  structure.  There 
was  a  little  smoke  coming  out  of  the  chimney, 
and  the  next  instant  he  strode  up  to  the  door. 
It  was  shut,  but  the  string  was  hanging  out  and 
he  pulled  it  and  pushed  the  door  open.  A  thin 
figure  seated  in  the  small  split-bottomed  chair 
on  the  hearth,  hovering  as  close  as  possible  over 
229 


Little  Darby 


the  fire,  straightened  up  and  turned  slowly  as 
he  stepped  into  the  room,  and  he  recognized 
his  mother — but  how  changed  !  She  was  quite 
white  and  little  more  than  a  skeleton.  At  sight 
of  the  figure  behind  her  she  pulled  herself  to 
her  feet,  and  peered  at  him  through  the  gloom. 

"Mother  !  "  he  said. 

' '  Darby  !  ' '  She  reached  her  arms  toward 
him,  but  tottered  so  that  she  would  have  fallen, 
had  he  not  caught  her  and  eased  her  down  into 
her  chair. 

As  she  became  a  little  stronger  she  made  him 
tell  her  about  the  battles  he  was  in.  Mr.  Mills 
had  come  to  tell  her  that  he  had  killed  the  man 
who  killed  Ad.  Darby  was  not  a  good  narra- 
tor, however,  and  what  he  had  to  tell  was  told 
in  a  few  words.  The  old  woman  revived  tinder 
it,  however,  and  her  eyes  had  a  brighter  light  in 
them. 

Darby  was  too  much  engrossed  in  taking 
care  of  his  mother  that  day  to  have  any  thought 
of  any  one  else.  He  was  used  to  a  soldier's 
scant  fare,  but  had  never  quite  taken  in  the 
fact  that  his  mother  and  the  women  at  home 
had  less  even  than  they  in  the  field.  He  had 
never  seen,  even  in  their  poorest  days  after  his 
father's  death,  not  only  the  house  absolutely 
empty,  but  without  any  means  of* getting  any- 
230 


Little  Darby 


thing  outside.  It  gave  him  a  thrill  to  think 
what  she  must  have  endured  without  letting 
him  know.  As  soon  as  he  could  leave  her,  he 
went  into  the  woods  with  his  old  gun,  and 
shortly  returned  with  a  few  squirrels  which  he 
cooked  for  her ;  the  first  meat,  she  told  him, 
that  she  had  tasted  for  weeks.  On  hearing  it 
his  heart  grew  hot.  Why  had  not  Vashti  come 
and  seen  about  her  ?  She  explained  it  partly, 
however,  when  she  told  him  that  every  one  had 
been  sick  at  Cove  Mills's,  and  old  Cove  him- 
self had  come  near  dying.  No  doctor  could 
be  got  to  see  them,  as  there  was  none  left  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  but  for  Mrs.  Douwill  she 
did  not  know  what  they  would  have  done.  But 
Mrs.  Douwill  was  down  herself  now. 

The  young  man  wanted  to  know  about 
Vashti,  but  all  he  could  manage  to  make  his 
tongue  ask  was, 

"Vashti?" 

She  could  not  tell  him,  she  did  not  know 
anything  about  Vashti.  Mrs.  Mills  used  to 
bring  her  things  sometimes,  till  she  was  taken 
down,  but  Vashti  had  never  come  to  see  her  ; 
all  she  knew  was  that  she  had  been  sick  with 
the  others. 

That  she  had  been  sick  awoke  in  the  young 
man  a  new  tenderness,  the  deeper  because  he 
231 


Little  Darby 


had  done  her  an  injustice  ;  and  he  was  seized 
with  a  great  longing  to  see  her.  All  his  old 
love  seemed  suddenly  accumulated  in  his  heart, 
and  he  determined  to  go  and  see  her  at  once, 
as  he  had  not  long  to  stay.  He  set  about  his 
little  preparations  forthwith,  putting  on  his  old 
clothes  which  his  mother  had  kept  ever  since 
he  went  away,  as  being  more  presentable  than 
the  old  worn  and  muddy,  threadbare  uniform, 
and  brushing  his  long  yellow  hair  and  beard 
into  something  like  order.  He  changed  from 
one  coat  to  the  other  the  little  package  which 
he  always  carried,  thinking  that  he  would  show 
it  to  her  with  the  hole  in  it,  which  the  sharp- 
shooter's bullet  had  made  that  day,  and  he  put 
her  letter  into  the  same  pocket ;  his  heart  beat- 
ing at  the  sight  of  her  hand  and  the  memory 
of  the  words  she  had  written,  and  then  he  set 
out.  It  was  already  late  in  the  evening,  and 
after  the  rain  the  air  was  soft  and  balmy,  though 
the  western  sky  was  becoming  overcast  again 
by  a  cloud,  which  low  down  on  the  horizon 
was  piling  up  mountain  on  mountain  of  vapor, 
as  if  it  might  rain  again  by  night.  Darby,  how- 
ever, having  dressed,  crossed  the  flat  without 
much  trouble,  only  getting  a  little  wet  in  some 
places  where  the  logs  were  gone.  As  he  turned 
into  the  path  up  the  hill,  he  stood  face  to  face 
232 


Little  Darby 


with  Vashti.  She  was  standing  by  a  little 
spring  which  came  from  under  an  old  oak,  the 
only  one  on  the  hill-side  of  pines,  and  was  in 
a  faded  black  calico.  He  scarcely  took  in  at 
first  that  it  was  Vashti,  she  was  so  changed. 
He  had  always  thought  of  her  as  he  last  saw 
her  that  evening  in  pink,  with  her  white  throat 
and  her  scornful  eyes.  She  was  older  now  than 
she  was  then ;  looked  more  a  woman  and 
taller ;  and  her  throat  if  anything  was  whiter 
than  ever  against  her  black  dress  ;  her  face  was 
whiter  too,  and  her  eyes  darker  and  larger. 
At  least,  they  opened  wide  when  Darby  ap- 
peared in  the  path.  Her  hands  went  up  to  her 
throat  as  if  she  suddenly  wanted  breath.  All 
of  the  young  man's  heart  went  out  to  her,  and 
the  next  moment  he  was  within  arm's  length  of 
her.  Her  one  word  was  in  his  ears : 

"  Darby  !  "  He  was  about  to  catch  her  in 
his  arms  when  a  gesture  restrained  him,  and  her 
look  turned  him  to  stone. 

"  Yer  uniform  ?  "  she  gasped,  stepping  back. 
Darby  was  not  quick  always,  and  he  looked 
down  at  his  clothes  and  then  at  her  again,  his 
dazed  brain  wondering. 

"  Whar's  yer  uniform  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  At  home,"  he  said,  quietly,  still  wondering. 
She  seemed  to  catch  some  hope. 

233 


Little  Darby 


"Yer  got  a  furlough?"  she  said,  more 
quietly,  coming  a  little  nearer  to  him,  and  her 
eyes  growing  softer. 

"Got  a  furlough?"  he  repeated  to  gain 
time  for  thought.  "I — I—  -"  He  had 
never  thought  of  it  before ;  the  words  in  her 
letter  flashed  into  his  mind,  and  he  felt  his  face 
flush.  He  would  not  tell  her  a  lie.  "No,  I 
ain't  got  no  furlough,"  he  said,  and  paused 
whilst  he  tried  to  get  his  words  together  to  ex- 
plain. But  she  did  not  give  him  time. 

"What  you  doin'  with  them  clo'se  on?" 
she  asked  again. 

"I — I "  he  began,  stammering  as  her 

suspicion  dawned  on  him. 

"  You're  a  deserter  !  "  she  said,  coldly,  lean- 
ing forward,  her  hands  clenched,  her  face  white, 
her  eyes  contracted. 

"A  what !  "  he  asked  aghast,  his  brain  not 
wholly  taking  in  her  words. 

"  You're  a  deserter  !  "  she  said  again — "  and 
— a  coward  !  ' ' 

All  the  blood  in  him  seemed  to  surge  to  his 
head  and  leave  his  heart  like  ice.  He  seized 
her  arm  with  a  grip  like  steel. 

"  Vashti  Mills,"  he  said,  with  his  face  white, 
"don't  you  say  that  to  me — if  yer  were  a  man 
I'd  kill  yer  right  here  where  yer  stan'  !  "  He 

234 


Little  Darby 


tossed  her  hand  from  him,  and  turned  on  his 
heel. 

The  next  instant  she  was  standing  alone,  and 
when  she  reached  the  point  in  the  path  where 
she  could  see  the  crossing,  Darby  was  already 
on  the  other  side  of  the  swamp,  striding  knee- 
deep  through  the  water  as  if  he  were  on  dry 
land.  She  could  not  have  made  him  hear  if 
she  had  wished  it;  for  on  a  sudden  a  great 
rushing  wind  swept  through  the  pines,  bending 
them  down  like  grass  and  blowing  the  water  in 
the  bottom  into  white  waves,  and  the  thunder 
which  had  been  rumbling  in  the  distance  sud- 
denly broke  with  a  great  peal  just  overhead. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  rain  came;  but  the  girl 
did  not  mind  it.  She  stood  looking  across  the 
bottom  until  it  came  in  sheets,  wetting  her  to 
the  skin  and  shutting  out  everything  a  few 
yards  away. 

The  thunder-storm  passed,  but  all  that  night 
the  rain  came  down,  and  all  the  next  day,  and 
when  it  held  up  a  little  in  the  evening  the  bot- 
tom was  a  sea. 

The  rain  had  not  prevented  Darby  from  go- 
ing out — he  was  used  to  it ;  and  he  spent  most 
of  the  day  away  from  home.  When  he  returned 
he  brought  his  mother  a  few  provisions,  as 
much  meal  perhaps  as  a  child  might  carry,  and 

235 


Little  Darby 


spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  sitting  before  the 
fire,  silent  and  motionless,  a  flame  burning 
back  deep  in  his  eyes  and  a  cloud  fixed  on  his 
brow.  He  was  in  his  uniform,  which  he  had 
put  on  again  the  night  before  as  soon  as  he  got 
home,  and  the  steam  rose  from  it  as  he  sat. 
The  other  clothes  were  in  a  bundle  on  the  floor 
where  he  had  tossed  them  the  evening  before. 
He  never  moved  except  when  his  mother  now 
and  then  spoke,  and  then  sat  down  again  as 
before.  Presently  he  rose  and  said  he  must  be 
going  ;  but  as  he  rose  to  his  feet,  a  pain  shot 
through  him  like  a  knife  ;  everything  turned 
black  before  him  and  he  staggered  and  fell  full 
length  on  the  floor. 

He  was  still  on  the  floor  next  morning,  for  his 
mother  had  not  been  able  to  get  him  to  the 
bed,  or  to  leave  to  get  any  help;  but  she  had 
made  him  a  pallet,  and  he  was  as  comfortable 
as  a  man  might  be  with  a  raging  fever.  Feeble 
as  she  was,  the  sudden  demand  on  her  had 
awakened  the  old  woman's  faculties  and  she  was 
stronger  than  might  have  seemed  possible.  One 
thing  puzzled  her  :  in  his  incoherent  mutter- 
ings,  Darby  constantly  referred  to  a  furlough 
and  a  deserter.  She  knew  that  he  had  a  fur- 
lough, of  course  ;  but  it  puzzled  her  to  hear  him 
constantly  repeating  the  words.  So  the  day 
236 


Little  Darby 


passed  and  then,  Darby's  delirium  still  continu- 
ing, she  made  out  to  get  to  a  neighbor's  to  ask 
help.  The  neighbor  had  to  go  to  Mrs.  Dou- 
will's  as  the  only  place  where  there  was  a 
chance  of  getting  any  medicine,  and  it  hap- 
pened that  on  the  way  back  she  fell  in  with  a 
couple  of  soldiers,  on  horseback,  who  asked  her 
a  few  questions.  They  were  members  of  a 
home  and  conscript  guard  just  formed,  and 
when  she  left  them  they  had  learned  her 
errand. 

Fortunately,  Darby's  illness  took  a  better 
turn  next  day,  and  by  sunset  he  was  free  from 
delirium. 

Things  had  not  fared  well  over  at  Cove 
Mi  11s' s  during  these  days  any  more  than  at  Mrs. 
Stanley's.  Vashti  was  in  a  state  of  mind  which 
made  her  mother  wonder  if  she  were  not  going 
crazy.  She  set  it  down  to  the  storm  she  had 
been  out  in  that  evening,  for  Vashti  had  not 
mentioned  Darby's  name.  She  kept  his  pres- 
sence  to  herself,  thinking  that — thinking  so 
many  things  that  she  could  not  speak  or  eat. 
Her  heart  was  like  lead  within  her ;  but  she 
could  not  rid  herself  of  the  thought  of  Darby. 
She  could  have  torn  it  out  for  hate  of  herself; 
and  to  all  her  mother's  questioning  glances  she 
turned  the  face  of  a  sphinx.  For  two  days  she 


Little  Darby 


neither  ate  nor  spoke.  She  watched  the  op- 
posite hill  through  the  rain  which  still  kept  up 
— something  was  going  on  over  there,  but  what 
it  was  she  could  not  tell.  At  last,  on  the  even- 
ing of  the  third  day,  she  could  stand  it  no 
longer,  and  she  set  out  from  home  to  learn 
something;  she  could  not  have  gone  to  Mrs. 
Stanley's,  even  if  she  had  wished  to  do  so ;  for 
the  bottom  was  still  a  sea  extending  from  side 
to  side,  and  it  was  over  her  head  in  the  current. 
She  set  off,  therefore,  up  the  stream  on  her  own 
side,  thinking  to  learn  something  up  that  way. 
She  met  the  woman  who  had  taken  the  medi- 
cine to  Darby  that  evening,  and  she  told  her 
all  she  knew,  mentioning  among  other  things 
the  men  of  the  conscript  guard  she  had  seen. 
Vashti's  heart  gave  a  sudden  bound  up  into  her 
throat.  As  she  was  so  near  she  went  on  up  to 
the  Cross-roads ;  but  just  as  she  stepped  out  into 
the  road  before  she  reached  there,  she  came  on 
a  small  squad  of  horsemen  riding  slowly  along. 
She  stood  aside  to  let  them  pass  ;  but  they 
drew  in  and  began  to  question  her  as  to  the 
roads  about  them.  They  were  in  long  cloaks 
and  overcoats,  and  she  thought  they  were  the 
conscript  guard,  especially  as  there  was  a 
negro  with  them  who  seemed  to  know  the 
roads  and  to  be  showing  them  the  way.  Her 

238 


Little  Darby 


one  thought  was  of  Darby ;  he  would  be  ar- 
rested and  shot.  When  they  questioned  her, 
therefore,  she  told  them  of  the  roads  leading  to 
the  big  river  around  the  fork  and  quite  away 
from  the  district.  Whilst  they  were  still  talk- 
ing, more  riders  came  around  the  curve,  and 
the  next  instant  Vashti  was  in  the  midst  of  a 
column  of  cavalry,  and  she  knew  that  they  were 
the  Federals.  She  had  one  moment  of  terror 
for  herself  as  the  restive  horses  trampled  around 
her,  and  the  calls  and  noises  of  a  body  of  cav- 
alry moving  dinned  in  her  ears ;  but  the  next 
moment,  when  the  others  gave  way  and  a  man 
whom  she  knew  to  be  the  commander  pressed 
forward  and  began  to  question  her,  she  forgot 
her  own  terror  in  fear  for  her  cause.  She  had 
all  her  wits  about  her  instantly ;  and  under  a 
pretence  of  repeating  what  she  had  already  told 
the  first  men,  she  gave  them  such  a  mixture  of 
descriptions  that  the  negro  was  called  up  to  un- 
ravel it.  She  made  out  that  they  were  trying 
to  reach  the  big  river  by  a  certain  road,  and 
marched  in  the  night  as  well  as  in  the  day. 
She  admitted  that  she  had  never  been  on  that 
road  but  once.  And  when  she  was  taken  along 
with  them  a  mile  or  two  to  the  place  where  they 
went  into  bivouac  until  the  moon  should  rise, 
she  soon  gave  such  an  impression  of  her  dense- 

239 


Little  Darby 


ness  and  ignorance  that,  after  a  little  more 
questioning,  she  was  told  that  she  might  go 
home  if  she  could  find  her  way,  and  was  sent 
by  the  commander  out  of  the  camp.  She  was 
no  sooner  out  of  hearing  of  her  captors  than 
she  began  to  run  with  all  her  speed.  Her  chief 
thought  was  of  Darby.  Deserter  as  he  was, 
and  dead  to  her,  he  was  a  man,  and  could  ad- 
vise her,  help  her.  She  tore  through  the  woods 
the  nearest  way,  unheeding  the  branches  which 
caught  and  tore  her  clothes ;  the  stream,  even 
where  she  struck  it,  was  out  of  its  banks ;  but 
she  did  not  heed  it — she  waded  through,  it 
reaching  about  to  her  waist,  and  struck  out 
again  at  the  top  of  her  speed. 

It  must  have  been  a  little  before  midnight 
when  she  emerged  from  the  pines  in  front  of  the 
Stanley  cabin.  The  latch -string  was  out,  and 
she  knocked  and  pushed  open  the  door  almost 
simultaneously.  All  she  could  make  out  to  say 
was,  "  Darby."  The  old  woman  was  on  her 
feet,  and  the  young  man  was  sitting  up  in  the 
bed,  by  the  time  she  entered. 

Darby  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"What  do  you  want  here?"  he  asked, 
sternly. 

"  Darby — the    Yankees — all    around,"    she 
gasped — "  out  on  the  road  yonder." 
240 


Little  Darby 


"What!  " 

A  minute  later  the  young  man,  white  as  a 
ghost,  was  getting  on  his  jacket  while  she  told 
her  story,  beginning  with  what  the  woman  she 
had  met  had  told  her  of  the  two  men  she  had 
seen.  The  presence  of  a  soldier  had  given  her 
confidence,  and  having  delivered  her  message 
both  women  left  everything  else  to  him.  His 
experience  or  his  soldier's  instinct  told  him 
what  they  were  doing  and  also  how  to  act. 
They  were  a  raid  which  had  gotten  around  the 
body  of  the  army  and  were  striking  for  the 
capital;  and  from  their  position,  unless  they 
could  be  delayed  they  might  surprise  it.  In  the 
face  of  the  emergency  a  sudden  genius  seemed 
to  illuminate  the  young  man's  mind.  By  the 
time  he  was  dressed  he  was  ready  with  his  plan 
— Did  Vashti  know  where  any  of  the  conscript 
guard  stayed  ? 

Yes,  down  the  road  at  a  certain  place. 
Good  ;  it  was  on  the  way.  Then  he  gave  her 
his  orders.  She  was  to  go  to  this  place  and 
rouse  any  one  she  might  find  there  and  tell 
them  to  send  a  messenger  to  the  city  with  all 
speed  to  warn  them,  and  were  to  be  themselves 
if  possible  at  a  certain  point  on  the  road  by 
which  the  raiders  were  travelling,  where  a  little 
stream  crossed  it  in  a  low  place  in  a  heavy 
241 


Little  Darby 


piece  of  swampy  woods.  They  would  find  a 
barricade  there  and  a  small  force  might  possibly 
keep  them  back.  Then  she  was  to  go  on  down 
and  have  the  bridge,  ten  or  twelve  miles  below 
on  the  road  between  the  forks  burned,  and  if 
necessary  was  to  burn  it  herself;  and  it  must  be 
done  by  sunrise.  But  they  were  on  the  other 
road,  outside  of  the  forks,  the  girl  explained,  to 
which  Darby  only  said,  he  knew  that,  but  they 
would  come  back  and  try  the  bridge  road. 

* '  And  you  burn  the  bridge  if  you  have  to  do 
it  with  your  own  hand,  you  hear — and  now 
go,"  he  said. 

"Yes — I'll  do  it,"  said  the  girl  obediently 
and  turned  to  the  door.  The  next  instant  she 
turned  back  to  him :  he  had  his  gun  and  was 
getting  his  axe. 

"  And,  Darby ?  "  she  began  falteringly, 

her  heart  in  her  eyes. 

"  Go,"  said  the  young  soldier,  pointing  to 
the  door,  and  she  went  just  as  he  took  up  his 
old  rifle  and  stepped  over  to  where  his  mother 
sat  white  and  dumb.  As  she  turned  at  the  edge 
of  the  clearing  and  looked  back  up  the  path 
over  the  pine-bushes  she  saw  him  step  out  of  the 
door  with  his  gun  in  one  hand  and  his  axe  in 
the  other. 

An  hour  later  Darby,  with  the  fever  still  hot 
242 


Little  Darby 


on  him,  was  cutting  down  trees  in  the  darkness 
on  the  bank  of  a  marshy  little  stream,  and 
throwing  them  into  the  water  on  top  of  one 
another  across  the  road,  in  a  way  to  block  it 
beyond  a  dozen  axemen's  work  for  several 
hours,  and  Vashti  was  trudging  through  the 
darkness  miles  away  to  give  the  warning.  Every 
now  and  then  the  axeman  stopped  cutting  and 
listened,  and  then  went  on  again.  He  had  cut 
down  a  half-dozen  trees  and  formed  a  barricade 
which  it  would  take  hours  to  clear  away  before 
cavalry  could  pass,  when,  stopping  to  listen,  he 
heard  a  sound  that  caused  him  to  put  down  his 
axe  :  the  sound  of  horses  splashing  along  through 
the  mud.  His  practised  ear  told  him  that  there 
were  only  three  or  four  of  them,  and  he  took 
up  his  gun  and  climbed  up  on  the  barricade  and 
waited.  Presently  the  little  squad  of  horsemen 
came  in  sight,  a  mere  black  group  in  the  road. 
They  saw  the  dark  mass  lying  across  the  road  and 
reined  in  ;  then  after  a  colloquy  came  on  down 
slowly.  Darby  waited  until  they  were  within 
fifty  yards  of  his  barricade,  and  then  fired  at 
the  nearest  one.  A  horse  wheeled,  plunged, 
and  then  galloped  away  in  the  darkness,  and  sev- 
eral rounds  from  pistols  were  fired  toward  him, 
whilst  something  went  on  on  the  ground.  Be- 
fore he  could  finish  reloading,  however,  the  men 


Little  Darby 


had  turned  around  and  were  out  of  sight.  In 
a  minute  Darby  climbed  over  the  barricade 
and  strode  up  the  road  after  them.  He  paused 
where  the  man  he  had  shot  had  fallen.  The 
place  in  the  mud  was  plain ;  but  his  comrades 
had  taken  him  up  and  carried  him  off.  Darby 
hurried  along  after  them.  Day  was  just  break- 
ing, and  the  body  of  cavalry  were  preparing  to 
leave  their  bivouac  when  a  man  emerged  from 
the  darkness  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  camp 
from  that  where  Little  Darby  had  been  felling 
trees,  and  walked  up  to  the  picket.  He  was 
halted  and  brought  up  where  the  fire  -  light 
could  shine  on  him,  and  was  roughly  questioned 
— a  tall  young  countryman,  very  pale  and  thin, 
with  an  old  ragged  slouched  hat  pulled  over  his 
eyes,  and  an  old  patched  uniform  on  his  gaunt 
frame.  He  did  not  seem  at  all  disturbed  by 
the  pistols  displayed  around  him,  but  seated 
himself  at  the  fire  and  looked  about  in  a  dull 
kind  of  way. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  they  asked  him,  see- 
ing how  cool  he  was. 

"  Don't  you  want  a  guide?"  he  asked, 
drawlingly. 

' '  Who  are  you  ? ' '  inquired  the  corporal  in 
charge.  He  paused. 

"  Some  calls  me  a  d'serter,"  he  said,  slowly. 

244 


Little  Darby 


The  men  all  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  I  thought  maybe  as  you  wanted  a  guide," 
he  said,  quietly. 

"We  don't  want  you.  We've  got  all  the 
guide  we  want,"  answered  the  corporal,  roughly, 
"and  we  don't  want  any  spies  around  here 
either,  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Does  he  know  the  way  ?  All  the  creeks  is 
up  now,  an'  it's  sort  o'  hard  to  git  erlong 
through  down  yonder  way  if  you  don't  know 
the  way  toller 'ble  well?" 

"  Yes,  he  knows  the  way  too — every  foot  of 
it — and  a  good  deal  more  than  you'll  see  of  it 
if  you  don't  look  out." 

"  Oh  !  That  road  down  that  way  is  sort  o' 
stopped  up,"  said  the  man,  as  if  he  were  carry- 
ing on  a  connected  narrative  and  had  not  heard 
him.  "  They's  soldiers  on  it  too  a  little  fur'er 
down,  and  they's  done  got  word  you're  a-com- 
in'  that  a- way." 

"  What's  that?  "  they  asked,  sharply. 

"Leastways  it's  stopped  up,  and  I  knows  a 
way  down  this  a-way  in  and  about  as  nigh  as 
that,"  went  on  the  speaker,  in  the  same  level 
voice. 

"Where  do  you  live  ?  "  they  asked  him. 

"  I  lives  back  in  the  pines  here  a  piece." 

245 


Little  Darby 


11  How  long  have  you  lived  here  ?  " 

"  About  twenty-three  years,  I  b'leeves;  'ats 
what  my  mother  says. ' ' 

"  You  know  all  the  country  about  here  ?  " 

"  Ought  to." 

"  Been  in  the  army?  " 

"  Ahn — hahn." 

"  What  did  you  desert  for?  " 

Darby  looked  at  him  leisurely. 

"  'D  you  ever  know  a  man  as  'lowed  he'd 
deserted?  I  never  did."  A  faint  smile  flick- 
ered on  his  pale  face. 

He  was  taken  to  the  camp  before  the  com- 
mander, a  dark,  self-contained  looking  man 
with  a  piercing  eye  and  a  close  mouth,  and 
there  closely  questioned  as  to  the  roads,  and  he 
gave  the  same  account  he  had  already  given. 
The  negro  guide  was  brought  up  and  his  infor- 
mation tallied  with  the  new  comer's  as  far  as 
he  knew  it,  though  he  knew  well  only  the  road 
which  they  were  on  and  which  Darby  said  was 
stopped  up.  He  knew,  too,  that  a  road  such 
as  Darby  offered  to  take  them  by  ran  some- 
where down  that  way  and  joined  the  road  they 
were  on  a  good  distance  below  ;  but  he  thought 
it  was  a  good  deal  longer  way  and  they  had  to 
cross  a  fork  of  the  river. 

There  was  a  short  consultation  between  the 
246 


Little  Darby 


commander  and  one  or  two  other  officers,  and 
then  the  commander  turned  to  Darby,  and 
said  : 

"  What  you  say  about  the  road's  being  ob- 
structed this  way  is  partly  true ;  do  you  guaran- 
tee that  the  other  road  is  clear  ?  ' ' 

Darby  paused  and  reflected. 

"  I'll  guide  you,"  he  said,  slowly. 

"  Do  you  guarantee  that  the  bridge  on  the 
river  is  standing  and  that  we  can  get  across  ?  " 

"  Hit's  standing  now,  fur  as  I  know." 

''Do  you  understand  that  you  are  taking 
your  life  in  your  hand  ?  " 

Darby  looked  at  him  coolly. 

' '  And  that  if  you  take  us  that  way  and  for 
any  cause — for  any  cause  whatsoever  we  fail  to 
get  through  safe,  we  will  hang  you  to  the  near- 
est tree  ? ' ' 

Darby  waited  as  if  in  deep  reflection. 

"I  understand,"  he  said.    "I'll  guide  you." 

The  silence  that  followed  seemed  to  extend 
all  over  the  camp.  The  commander  was  re- 
flecting and  the  others  had  their  eyes  fastened 
on  Darby.  As  for  him,  he  sat  as  unmoved  as 
if  he  had  been  alone  in  the  woods. 

"  All  right,"  said  the  leader,  suddenly,  "  it's 
a  bargain  :  we'll  take  your  road.  What  do  you 
want?" 

247 


Little  Darby 


"  Could  you  gi'me  a  cup  o'  coffee?  It's 
been  some  little  time  since  I  had  anything  to 
eat,  an'  I  been  sort  o'  sick." 

"You  shall  have  'em,"  said  the  officer, 
"  and  good  pay  besides,  if  you  lead  us  straight ; 
if  not,  a  limb  and  a  halter  rein  ;  you  under- 
stand? " 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  they  were  on  the 
march,  Darby  trudging  in  front  down  the  mid- 
dle of  the  muddy  road  between  two  of  the 
advance  guard,  whose  carbines  were  conven- 
iently carried  to  insure  his  fidelity.  What  he 
thought  of,  who  might  know  ? — plain  ;  poor ; 
ignorant ;  unknown  ;  marching  every  step  vol- 
untarily nearer  to  certain  and  ignominious  death 
for  the  sake  of  his  cause. 

As  day  broke  they  saw  a  few  people  who 
lived  near  the  road,  and  some  of  them  recog- 
nized Darby  and  looked  their  astonishment  to 
see  him  guiding  them.  One  or  two  of  the 
women  broke  out  at  him  for  a  traitor  and  a 
dog,  to  which  he  said  nothing ;  but  only 
looked  a  little  defiant  with  two  red  spots  burn- 
ing in  his  thin  cheeks,  and  trudged  on  as  before  ; 
now  and  then  answering  a  question  ;  but  for 
the  most  part  silent. 

He  must  have  thought  of  his  mother,  old  and 
by  herself  in  her  cabin  ;  but  she  would  not  live 
248 


Little  Darby 


long;  and  of  Vashti  some.  She  had  called 
him  a  deserter,  as  the  other  women  had  done. 
A  verse  from  the  Testament  she  gave  him  may 
have  come  into  his  mind  ;  he  had  never  quite 
understood  it :  "  Blessed  are  ye  when  men  shall 
revile  ye."  Was  this  what  it  meant?  This  and 
another  one  seemed  to  come  together.  It  was 
something  about  "  enduring  hardship  like  a 
good  soldier,"  he  could  not  remember  it  exactly. 
Yes,  he  could  do  that.  But  Vashti  had  called 
him  a  deserter.  Maybe  now  though  she  would 
not ;  and  the  words  in  the  letter  she  had  written 
him  came  to  him,  and  the  little  package  in  his 
old  jacket  pocket  made  a  warm  place  there  ; 
and  he  felt  a  little  fresher  than  before.  The 
sun  came  up  and  warmed  him  as  he  trudged 
along,  and  the  country  grew  flatter  and  flatter, 
and  the  road  deeper  and  deeper.  They  were 
passing  down  into  the  bottom.  On  either  side 
of  them  were  white-oak  swamps,  so  that  they 
could  not  see  a  hundred  yards  ahead  ;  but  for 
several  miles  Darby  had  been  watching  for  the 
smoke  of  the  burning  bridge,  and  as  they  neared 
the  river  his  heart  began  to  sink.  There  was 
one  point  on  the  brow  of  a  hill  before  descend- 
ing to  the  bottom,  where  a  sudden  bend  of  the 
road  and  curve  of  the  river  two  or  three  miles 
below  gave  a  sight  of  the  bridge.  Darby 
249 


Little  Darby 


waited  for  this,  and  when  he  reached  it  and  saw 
-»x~  the  bridge  still  standing  his  heart  sank  like  lead. 

Other  eyes  saw  it  too,  and  a  score  of  glasses 
were  levelled  at  it,  and  a  cheer  went  up. 

"Why  don't  you  cheer  too?"  asked  an 
officer.  "  You  have  more  to  make  or  lose  than 
anyone  else." 

"  We  ain't  there  yit,"  said  Darby. 

Once  he  thought  he  had  seen  a  little  smoke, 
but  it  had  passed  away,  and  now  they  were 
within  three  miles  of  the  bridge  and  there  was 
nothing.  What  if,  after  all,  Vashti  had  failed 
and  the  bridge  was  still  standing  !  He  would 
really  have  brought  the  raiders  by  the  best  way 
and  have  helped  them.  His  heart  at  the 
thought  came  up  into  his  throat.  He  stopped 
and  began  to  look  about  as  if  he  doubted  the 
road.  When  the  main  body  came  up,  however, 
the  commander  was  in  no  doubt,  and  a  pistol 
stuck  against  his  head  gave  him  to  understand 
that  no  fooling  would  be  stood.  So  he  had  to 
go  on. 

As  to  Vashti,  she  had  covered  the  fifteen 
miles  which  lay  between  the  district  and  the 
fork-road  ;  and  had  found  and  sent  a  messenger 
to  give  warning  in  the  city;  but  not  finding 
any  of  the  homeguard  where  she  thought  they 
were,  she  had  borrowed  some  matches  and  had 
250 


Little  Darby 


trudged  on  herself  to  execute  the  rest  of  Darby's 
commands. 

The  branches  were  high  from  the  backwater 
of  the  fork,  and  she  often  had  to  wade  up  to  her 
waist,  but  she  kept  on,  and  a  little  after  day- 
light she  came  to  the  river.  Ordinarily,  it 
was  not  a  large  stream ;  a  boy  could  chuck  a 
stone  across  it,  and  there  was  a  ford  above  the 
bridge  not  very  deep  in  dry  weather,  which 
people  sometimes  took  to  water  their  horses,  or 
because  they  preferred  to  ride  through  the  water 
to  crossing  the  steep  and  somewhat  rickety  old 
bridge.  Now,  however,  the  water  was  far  out 
in  the  woods,  and  long  before  the  girl  got  in 
sight  of  the  bridge  she  wras  wading  up  to  her 
knees.  When  she  reached  the  point  where  she 
could  see  it,  her  heart  for  a  moment  failed  her ; 
the  whole  flat  was  under  water.  She  remem- 
bered Darby's  command,  however,  and  her 
courage  came  back  to  her.  She  knew  that  it 
could  not  be  as  deep  as  it  looked  between  her 
and  the  bridge,  for  the  messenger  had  gone  be- 
fore her  that  way,  and  a  moment  later  she  had 
gone  back  and  collected  a  bundle  of  "  dry- 
wood,"  and  with  a  long  pole  to  feel  her  way 
she  waded  carefully  in.  As  it  grew  deeper  and 
deeper  until  it  reached  her  breast,  she  took  the 
matches  out  and  held  them  in  her  teeth,  hold- 
251 


Little  Darby 


ing  her  bundle  above  her  head.  It  was  hard 
work  to  keep  her  footing  this  way,  however,  and 
once  she  stepped  into  a  hole  and  went  under  to 
her  chin,  having  a  narrow  escape  from  falling 
into  a  place  which  her  pole  could  not  fathom  ; 
but  she  recovered  herself  and  at  last  was  on 
the  bridge.  When  she  tried  to  light  a  fire, 
however,  her  matches  would  not  strike.  They 
as  well  as  the  wood  had  gotten  wet  when  she 
slipped,  and  not  one  would  light.  She  might 
as  well  have  been  at  her  home  in  the  district. 
When  every  match  had  been  tried  and  tried 
again  on  a  dry  stone,  only  to  leave  a  white 
streak  of  smoking  sulphur  on  it,  she  sat  down 
and  cried.  For  the  first  time  she  felt  cold  and 
weary.  The  rays  of  the  sun  fell  on  her  and 
warmed  her  a  little,  and  she  wiped  her  eyes  on 
her  sleeve  and  looked  up.  The  sun  had  just 
come  up  over  the  hill.  It  gave  her  courage. 
She  turned  and  looked  the  other  way  from 
which  she  had  come — nothing  but  a  waste  of 
water  and  woods.  Suddenly,  from  a  point  up 
over  the  nearer  woods  a  little  sparkle  caught 
her  eye ;  there  must  be  a  house  there,  she 
thought ;  they  might  have  matches,  and  she 
would  go  back  and  get  some.  But  there  it  was 
again — it  moved.  There  was  another — another 
— and  something  black  moving.  She  sprang  to 
252 


Little  Darby 


her  feet  and  strained  her  eyes.  Good  God  ! 
they  were  coming  !  In  a  second  she  had 
turned  the  other  way,  rushed  across  the  bridge, 
and  was  dashing  through  the  water  to  her  waist. 
The  water  was  not  wide  that  way.  The  hill 
rose  almost  abruptly  on  that  side,  and  up  it 
she  dashed,  and  along  the  road.  A  faint  curl 
of  smoke  caught  her  eye  and  she  made  for  it 
through  the  field. 

It  was  a  small  cabin,  and  the  woman  in  it 
had  just  gotten  her  fire  well  started  for  the 
morning,  when  a  girl  bare-headed  and  bare- 
footed, dripping  wet  to  the  skin,  her  damp 
hair  hanging  down  her  back,  her  face  white  and 
her  eyes  like  coals,  rushed  in  almost  without 
knocking  and  asked  for  a  chunk  of  fire.  The 
woman  had  no  time  to  refuse  (she  told  of  it 
afterward  when  she  described  the  burning  of 
the  bridge)  ;  for  without  waiting  for  answer 
and  before  she  really  took  in  that  it  was  not  a 
ghost,  the  girl  had  seized  the  biggest  chunk  on 
the  hearth  and  was  running  with  it  across  the 
field.  In  fact,  the  woman  rather  thought  she 
was  an  evil  spirit ;  for  she  saw  her  seize  a  whole 
panel  of  fence — more  rails  than  she  could  have 
carried  to  save  her  life,  she  said,  and  dashed 
with  them  over  the  hill. 

In  Vashti's  mind,  indeed,  it  was  no  time  to 

253 


Little  Darby 


waste  words,  she  was  back  on  the  -bridge  with 
the  chunk  of  fire  and  an  armful  of  rails  before 
the  woman  recovered  from  her  astonishment, 
and  was  down  on  her  knees  blowing  her  chunk 
to  rekindle  it.  The  rails,  however,  like  every- 
thing else,  were  wet  and  would  not  light,  and 
she  was  in  despair.  At  last  she  got  a  little 
blaze  started,  but  it  would  not  burn  fast ;  it 
simply  smoked.  She  expected  the  soldiers  to 
come  out  of  the  woods  every  minute,  and  every 
second  she  was  looking  up  to  see  if  they  were  in 
sight.  What  would  Darby  think  ?  What  would 
happen  if  she  failed?  She  sprang  up  to  look 
around  :  the  old  rail  of  the  bridge  caught  her 
eye ;  it  was  rotted,  but  what  remained  was 
heart  and  would  burn  like  light-wood.  She 
tore  a  piece  of  it  down  and  stuck  one  end  in 
the  fire  :  it  caught  and  sputtered  and  suddenly 
flamed  up  ;  the  next  second  she  was  tearing  the 
rail  down  all  along  and  piling  it  on  the  blaze, 
and  as  it  caught  she  dashed  back  through  the 
water  and  up  the  hill,  and  brought  another  arm- 
ful of  rails.  Back  and  forth  she  waded  several 
times  and  piled  on  rails  until  she  got  a  stack  of 
them — two  stacks,  and  the  bridge  floor  dried 
and  caught  and  began  to  blaze  ;  and  when  she 
brought  her  last  armful  it  was  burning  all  across. 
She  had  been  so  busy  bringing  wood  that  she 

254 


Little  Darby 


had  forgotten  to  look  across  to  the  other  side 
for  some  time,  and  was  only  reminded  of  it  as 
she  was  wading  back  with  her  last  armful  of  rails 
by  something  buzzing  by  her  ear,  and  the  sec- 
ond after  the  crack  of  a  half-dozen  guns  followed 
from  the  edge  of  the  wood  the  other  side.  She 
could  not  see  them  well  for  the  burden  in  her 
arms,  but  she  made  out  a  number  of  horses 
dashing  into  the  water  on  the  little  flat,  and 
saw  some  puffs  of  smoke  about  their  heads.  She 
was  bound  to  put  her  wood  on,  however,  so  she 
pushed  ahead,  went  up  on  the  bridge  through 
the  smoke  as  far  as  she  could  go,  and  flung  her 
rails  on  the  now  devouring  fire.  A  sudden  veer 
of  the  wind  blew  the  smoke  behind  her  and 
bent  the  flames  aside,  and  she  could  see  clear 
across  the  fire  to  the  other  bank.  She  saw  a 
great  number  of  men  on  horses  at  the  edge  of 
the  woods,  in  a  sort  of  mass ;  and  a  half-dozen 
or  so  in  the  water  riding  up  to  their  saddle- 
skirts  half-way  to  the  bridge,  and  between  the 
first  two,  wading  in  water  to  his  waist,  Darby. 
He  was  bare-headed  and  he  waved  his  hat  to 
her,  and  she  heard  a  single  cheer.  She  waved 
her  hand  to  him,  and  there  was  a  little  puff  of 
smoke  and  something  occurred  in  the  water 
among  the  horses.  The  smoke  from  the  fire 
suddenly  closed  around  her  and  shut  out  every- 

255 


Little  Darby 


thing  from  her  eyes,  and  when  it  blew  away 
again  one  of  the  horses  had  thrown  his  rider  in 
the  water.  There  was  a  lot  of  firing  both  from 
the  edge  of  the  wood  and  from  the  horsemen  in 
the  water,  and  Darby  had  disappeared. 

She  made  her  way  back  to  the  bank  and 
plunged  into  a  clump  of  bushes,  where  she  was 
hidden  and  watched  the  raiders.  She  saw  sev- 
eral of  them  try  to  ford  the  river,  one  got 
across  but  swam  back,  the  others  were  swept 
down  by  the  current,  and  the  horse  of  one  got 
out  below  without  his  rider.  The  other  she  did 
not  see  again. 

Soon  after  their  comrade  had  rejoined  them, 
the  men  on  the  edge  of  the  wood  turned  around 
and  disappeared,  and  a  half-hour  later  she  saw 
the  glint  of  the  sun  on  their  arms  and  accoutre- 
ments as  they  crossed  over  the  top  of  the  hill 
returning  two  miles  above. 


This  is  the  story  of  the  frustration  of  the  raid 
upon  which  so  much  hope  was  built  by  some  in 
high  position  at  Washington.  A  day  was  lost, 
and  warning  was  given  to  the  Confederate  Gov- 
ernment, and  the  bold  plan  of  the  commander 
of  the  raiding  party  was  defeated. 

As  to  Little  Darby,  the  furlough  he  had  ap- 
256 


Little  Darby 


plied  for  came,  but  came  too  late  and  was  re- 
turned. For  a  time  some  said  he  was  a  desert- 
er j  but  two  women  knew  differently. 

A  Federal  soldier  who  was  taken  prisoner 
gave  an  account  of  the  raid.  He  said  that  a 
contraband  had"  come  from  Washington  and 
undertaken  to  lead  them  across  the  country,  and 
that  he  had  brought  them  around  the  head  of 
the  streams,  when  one  night  a  rebel  deserter 
came  into  camp  and  undertook  to  show  them 
a  better  way  by  a  road  which  ran  between  the 
rivers,  but  crossed  lower  down  by  a  bridge  ;  that 
they  had  told  him  that,  if  for  any  reason  they 
failed  to  get  through  by  his  road  they  would 
hang  him,  a  bargain  which  he  had  accepted. 
That  he  had  led  them  straight,  but  when  they 
had  got  to  the  bridge  it  had  been  set  on  fire  and 
was  burning  at  that  moment;  that  a  half-dozen 
men,  of  whom  he,  the  narrator,  was  one,  rode 
in,  taking  the  guide  along  with  them,  to  see  if 
they  could  not  put  the  fire  out,  or,  failing  that, 
find  the  ford  ;  and  when  they  were  about  half- 
way across  the  little  flat  they  saw  the  person  on 
the  bridge  in  the  very  act  of  burning  it,  and 
waving  his  hand  in  triumph  ;  and  the  man  who 
was  riding  abreast  of  him  in  front  fired  his  car- 
bine at  him.  As  he  did  so  the  deserter  wheeled 
on  him,  and  said,  "  God  d — n  you — don't  you 
257 


Little  Darby 


know  that's  a  woman,"  and  springing  on  him 
like  a  tiger  tore  him  from  his  horse ;  and,  be- 
fore they  took  in  what  he  was  doing,  had,  be- 
fore their  very  eyes,  flung  both  of  them  into  a 
place  where  the  current  was  running,  and  they 
had  disappeared.  They  had  seen  the  deserter's 
head  once  in  the  stream  lower  down,  and  had 
fired  at  him,  and  he  thought  had  hit  him,  as  he 
went  down  immediately  and  they  did  not  see 
him  again. 

This  is  all  that  was  known  of  Little  Darby, 
except  that  a  year  or  more  afterward,  and 
nearly  a  year  after  Mrs.  Stanley's  death,  a  pack- 
age with  an  old  needle-case  in  it  and  a  stained 
little  Testament  with  a  bullet  hole  through  it, 
was  left  at  the  Cross-roads,  with  a  message  that 
a  man  who  had  died  at  the  house  of  the  person 
who  left  it  as  he  was  trying  to  make  his  way 
back  to  his  command,  asked  to  have  that  sent 
to  Vashti  Mills. 


THE    END. 


258 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


HBRARYUSE 

«OV  1  4  ^956 

VI  v  w 

REC'D  LD 

NOV  H  ^ 

(IOT  1  9  1974  # 

^    ^ 

,  ji          *  *~ 

LD  21-100m-6,'56 
(B9311slO)476 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


M11989 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


